The Poetry Of Silence

The last breath floats to the stars.

Words crawl back into the shadows,

hidden behind a wall of doubt.

He knows, and she knows that he knows.

A light breeze blows the candle out.

 

Lips are silent against their will.

Stones rest heavy upon the tongue.

She loved him once and loves him still,

but their love song was never sung.

 

He failed to listen to her pleas

and could not find the words to say,

all the things to set her at ease,

to keep her from walking away.

 

He gazes as she bows her head,

her lips quivering as she cries.

He pushed her away, and she fled.

The waves are rising within her eyes.

 

Loving thoughts drown in misery.

She is numbed by the passing years.

Nothing absolves the history,

the broken trust, the grief, the tears.

 

There’s nothing now that he can say.

When he left, a part of her died.

Night always overtakes the day,

and it split her heart open wide.

 

The space between them eats her soul.

No life blooms on a fruitless tree.

Loss of his love consumes her whole.

The end is the end that must be.

 

Dead dreams dwindle into dust

like the end of a fairy tale.

The sun sets into shades of rust

on ties of an abandoned rail.

 

The wood is splintered like her heart.

The potter’s wheel forever sleeps.

There is no triumph for his part.

The poetry of silence weeps.

Author's Note

Reviews

[Lorry]

The space between them eats her soul and the final line are worth the admittance fee on their own Linda, but what a beautiful and sad tale you tell, of almost love and the futility of hoping against hope there would be a happy ever after to wrap their lives up in a bow.
Now I am wondering how many know a tale like this themselves and all the hope spent on something we see all too late as being hopeless. Yet we carry on in hope that it must happen to some, one and maybe even us.
I'm still thinking about the poetry of silence still weeping.
Beautifully captured.

[W. Barrett Munn]

I ready your profile and that helped me understand your poetry; I admire the attempt to keep formal prosody alive although poetry tends to be circular: even T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound wrote rhymed verse well after helping to develope free verse.
Rhyme scheme is one of the most difficult of choices to make, I think. I do find the AxxA, BxxB scheme less sing-song and than other schemes; it depends on the effect you are after.
On a side note, I found it interesting that one of your favorite poets is my namesake - my mother named me after Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
I thought I'd write this as I did read your poem but for me the ABAB scheme is one that I find conflcts too strongly with syntax so I find myself hunting rhyme rather than reading a poem - not a criticism but an explanation about me. Hope you understand.

Winston

[Ken Simm.]

I could film this. It is so beautifully told this love story in verse.

[Neville]

this whole page is quite simply beautiful, but sadly so .. and if I might just add, needs to be resurrected every now and then to remind myself of why I first fell in love with poetry .. Neville

[jacob erin-cilberto]

reminds me of S&G's "poem on the underground wall"
and she may write that word on the page when nothing else comes and the words will no longer be silent.
Wonderful write....just fantastic with a subtle rhyme scheme and such power in the lyrical jaunt you take us on.
j.

[Kelly Scheppers]

The excellence and caliber of this most profound read stagger my mind and overwhelms the heart and soul of me. My utmost respect, high esteem and admiration are yours, Linda!

[Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn..]

Linda Marie,

My heart has been touched deeply by this most poignantly eloquent and thought provoking piece of your heart and mind set so well to pen of page ... I loved every stanza of each and every word of your poem ... Yet, it was the entirety of the first two stanzas that took me captive, made my heart bleed and my eyes tearup for all that a woman feels that a man, as men all too often do, fails to grasp and understand, utterly fails to comprehend, and for which he can never make amends ... A broken heart is not a watch, a mere time piece that can be replaced or repaired ... A woman's heart is a treasure, a rare jewel only cast aside by those who are fools ... Wonderfully lovely writing!

Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn de Graham

[willweb]

And still the theme persists. When I read your poetry it makes me wonder and then l tell myself it is really none of my business but still it creates questions in my mind. Nevertheless. you poetry, regardless, you could pick any subject and it would still be amazing. This is another example of your poetic talent. I could feel this. I wish I were better at these reviews but...I love your poetry Linda Marie.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thank you. I couldn't help myself with this one. The image speaks of loneliness and heartbreak to me, and I can relate to those feelings so well. Thank you for the kind review. Feel free to ask questions anytime.

[Mk.t.g]

"There’s nothing now that he can say.
When he left, a part of her died."
Powerful lines, Linda! I loved the continuity and the gradual flow of emotions that this piece has gotten. Love your writing style.
Mk.t.g

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thank you, Mk.t.g.

[FGFRANKLIN]

For some reason this brought to mind the Belle of Amherst and her clandestine relationship with an unknown suitor. Some say her love was an abbot and kept secret for that reason. This poem is full of sad and mournful regret as well as bitter heartache. Eloquently rendered by the hand of the consummate poetess, it delivers the ache straight to the heart. Well done.

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Thank you so much, Fabian. I always appreciate your visit. :)

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

Just wanted to thank you again for this tidbit of information. I have never heard of the Belle of Amherst. Of course, I know Emily Dickinson but didn't attribute the Belle of Amherst to her at all. I have found the one-woman play by William Luce on YouTube and am watching it now. I'm only four minutes in, and it's really good. Thank you.

[FGFRANKLIN]

I'm sorry. I thought everyone that knew of her knew her sobriquet. She led an interesting life shrouded in mystery. After she died all her relatives fought over her writings and who had rights to them. Sad. Emily would never have wanted that.