Words Over Glass

Words Over Glass

These notes are my silent death song,

And my pen offers me no relief-

 

I watch others around me as they laugh,

Or cry and display a-

Myriad of moving emotions,

Misted upon a pane of glassy eyes.

Like rainbows, pictured over glass,

Their emotions shine,

Brilliant across their smiles,

One over which I could draw my,

Small finger across . . .

 

But, I can only draw a fissure,

Nothing more than a line,

Because- were I to knock with consistence,

I won’t be admitted . . .

~ ~ ~

I’d knocked,

Upon the glass panes . . .

~ ~ ~

How does one get over,

An unrequited past?

Relentless and unforgiving . . .

A malicious streak which drew,

That fissure over,

A small, arcing enclosure-

On which I knocked but could not enter-

 

[Omit name], [Omit name], how could you have!

Knowing what my feelings were,

As I screamed-

 

But, locked was I from the center.

My hands falling at the sides . . .

 

You glanced away,

When I so desperately wanted to come in,

 

And my hands slid across-

And fell out of limber.

 

And every breath I drew-

Painted circles across the pane,

Small puffs of smoke that shot-

In spiraling spots across the window.

Making their own artwork,

A teasing and skillful display.

 

I watched, mesmerized by the spots,

Wondering why,

With such beauty and grace they wrote,

Into the glass what I could never put into words,

The imprint of my graying heart.

 

So I,

Turned away from the display,

And no longer watched what I could not be,

A world in which I could not enter-

A measureless one of tumult and cavorting,

Of frolic and random playthings . . .

Small joys and reckless wonder,

They were not meant for one as I.

 

I wrapped my tattered cloak around me,

And I fell back,

As though I’d burned . . .

Ceasing to watch the writing-

Upon the sides of the rink-

Which had become a mantra-

 

‘Death, Death, Death!’

 

And instead,

I walked into the dusk,

And away from the mysterious artist-

Who had written all these words in the glass . . .

 

So that I could no longer feel the marks,

The stains in the glass picture. . .

Or my heart . . .

No longer had to read what they said,

Or see the graying mass.

 

And now . . .

If the artist reaches out again,

To try and touch the glassy pane,

To reach into that innermost circle-

I will not allow it to paint its words,

Because . . .

I despise the artwork ~

 

Reviews

[Chris]

I don't sense you want a critique... so as a comment -

I followed the flow - felt a little confusion and stumbles. Overall the sense WAS being separate but it was more like you not finding a handle to draw yourself into and through the "glass" rather than being "allowed" - least to me. There are times "artists" are oblivious or even disparaging to their viewers/readers to the point of cruel and intended disregard and denigration - eventually they are awarded with ...silence.

[David Scott]

This poem reminds me of a poem I read a few years ago brim Lilly here in the WC. Not the same poems, but a very similar experience. Both were looking back, looking into the warm home of "what if" while freezing in the reality of "what is"...
Now here, you take the reader on a ride of emotions. Regrets and longing less to self pity and doubt. Then you explore and try to find meaning with this finger painted condensations of rationalization.
Nothing seems to work however. So, we proceed through the well documented path of human response to dealing with loss, (or even just the beliefs of loss).

Soon you arrive at anger. Finally a place to begin. A place healing starts. Oddly, your hate is not directed at the object of your loss, rather your response, "art", to the loss.
This aspect was the unique part of the poetry.

I have read poetry dealing with this topic to conclude how love will never die. How one will always be waiting. I have seen anger morphed into hatred of the offender or unattainable... I have seen happy "Zen" responses of how great the learning process will deepen our appreciation for life... Etc and on and on.
However, this is the first poem I have read where the poet actually answered the question posed in the opening lines... How do we get past this?
Not by hosting others or by self hatred. We can only ever change how we respond. We choose what meanings to attach. So, if our past choices brought us sorrow, despise the choice and make a better be. This is healing. This is honesty. This is mature acceptance of our role in recovery and thriving.

A wonderful bit of philosophical poetic expression.

[Foxemerald]

Thank you so very much. You are the first person who has given me a deeper understanding of my own work, while providing me with your response to the actual poetry. I actually gave you a shout out on my Facebook (where I frequently post things such as poems, and short stories). I did not mention your name, of course. Your response to this piece, though, was humbling and allowed me to understand myself, my motivations and poetry, better. As I was reading your words, I was actually stunned-

For a moment, I felt as though I was looking into a cesspool of my own thoughts. However, the pool was deeper, and more reflective than my own . . . it was like you were providing verification for my feelings, letting me know that I was moving in the right direction, while simultaneously giving me a review of my work as well.

And, you are right. Love is only ever a decision that we make. Even though it invokes a million explosive thoughts and feelings, it is, in essence, a process. People tend to forget, due to its uniquely-emotive nature, that it is really a procedure. And, like any procedure we make, it has steps, and decisions which must lead us through the course of each underlying step. Once we arrive at the conclusion, we find that in many cases it is incorrect- and with a tendency to be just fallacious as any equation.

Because of its emotive qualities, however, we tend to forget that there ever was a process. Self-hatred and doubt overwhelm us to such an extent, that we hate the bringer of those affections instead. It is oftentimes easier than feeling the weight of that exploding emotional state, erupting around us, like hot, volcanic lava. We either turn the knife inward, or direct our target at the other person. We have forgotten, in our pain, regret, and whatever else we are feeling, that there was a process which led to that point. It is always better to focus on that as the culprit . . . who is the real ‘entity’ or ‘being’ to blame.

Thank you very much for verifying this for me, and giving me greater insight to myself, and my writing. I deeply appreciate your response.