the weight of hope

[jsol]

last august-
standing in the summertime air, your arms out like wings,
the breathless buildings hold my reflection,
waiting huddled for you like winter's birds.

birds blue with cold, watching our hurrying footfalls
through the snow.
our frozen breath curling up,
reaching out to where they perch
like statues waiting.
as i am always waiting for you.

running i am calling your name, so cold
with inner weathers, time's shackles tight
around every moment. and your heavy enormity just
sand running unchecked down the mountain of my desperation.
are there holes in my hands? what answers never await me?

and hot now the city like fires burnt out,
time falls on and you are tethered to it
like an anchor to a boat.
i am too late to catch anything but your sigh as it sticks
in misty remorse to the mirrors of the world.
you are awash with charred timbers, reducing down
to molecular frost, falling soft as
ash on the corner where so many cars rush into the
memories of windowed faces and again forget.

surprise looks up from your rapid gaze
into my eyes like the witch of wonder.
you scare me when you fall too fast.
but when is it ever different?
the platform on which you stand giving way
to my grief, hollow like
the space bridges span.

why are you always falling from me?
i am here on the bridge, hands outstretched in useless
supplication to my failure.
wanting to catch you, knowing you will slip.
and you do. you do. you do.
echoes in mirrors in circles in spheres
in wandering paths. they go. they go.
in moments in years.

it's so far down. i look over the edge and see death come up in
your eyes like a face at a window.
like every face, every window, every precipice
awaits the coming fall. the spilling of summer, the dripping
of winter. the sands are time's in name alone.
to timelessness do they belong.

i will always fail to hold on.
you will always fall.
the end must come, night to dawn
but 'halt' will we forever call?

i miss you.
sadly i turn away, anger and fear smirk at me
and hot salt is choking
my throat like a pillar of some childhood
transgression. a fear unsolved. my young imagination powerful, heaving
the soiled land back and forth.
frozen and spoiled. fetid and trapped by ice.
i miss you.

and then it is hot again, sweat chokes my memories of
your summer hands like dying flowers held askew,

red skin wilted and then white beneath.
fingers like something fragile, put away in
soft cloths like corpses.

where then do the swirled tips draw your speech?
the lined hands like diamonds or ripe fruit falling.
the sky opens and through it you descend in a bouquet
of emotions that will not die with you.

they live in me and heave in anguish.
i sleep dreamless and vague, lost in fog and crashing seas
that cover full the horizon.

the dead are beyond death like falling
out of sight through a cloud.
only are the living death's toys.

these worlds caught between us,
my grief, your silence
like the glass of a window.
the forgotten face within burning down
to the frozen, rotting ground
you have burrowed into.

[Zaylane]

Reading this made me think of losing a loved one. It's a very sad write that I thoroughly enjoyed. Though immensely sad and in my mind, a character losing a loved one to suicide. Thank you for sharing this.

[dwells]

A crushingly sad and sorrowful scenery, painted with a poignancy uncommon to many who have never felt what you've described here in desolate and despairing shades of poetic perfection Jsol. Peace, and cheers my friend - Dan

[jsol]

i genuinely appreciate the commentary. i once got into this (somewhat) heated debate on another poetry forum about whether it is more important for a writer to create their work so that the reader can understand it better (the more complete the understanding, the more effective the work) was my opposition's argument. i, on the other hand, argued that it is essentially up to the reader to, in a sense, figure out what it is that the writer is expressing in order to reach beyond what is considered, by the reader, correct and even moreso, possible. the writer must, however, know exactly what it is they are expressing. it cannot just be a jumbled mess of words. that wouldn't be anything close to art and would defile its essence. but to sacrifice ones creativity for the sake of being understood is absurd in my opinion. my argument was (and still is) that the reader needs to be challenged as much as possible by the writer and the writer needs to stay completely true to what it is they know and feel. in other words, it is the responsibility of the reader to decipher the writer's essential theme, or meaning. it is not the writer's responsibility to create something in order to be understood by the reader. if that was the case then nothing written would ever push at the boundaries of possibility. nothing honest would ever be gained. everything would simply bow to an order already in place, and true, unbridled craft would never take any chances, never go anywhere that it hasn't already been. it would basically cease to exist- as there would always be an agenda behind the words that is fake, making artists into con-artists. for what does a con-artist do? they tell you exactly what you want to hear in ways that you understand so well you are left unable to think clearly about the boundaries between true and false. it is like a gorgeous stranger walking up to you and telling you that you are the most beautiful person they have ever seen. that you are so attractive, so magnetic, so utterly compelling that it is was entirely impossible for them not to approach you and tell you these things. to not desire you like the whole world must. now try to think of anyone that wouldn't enjoy hearing that so much that they would see it as true, even if they know it isn't... and then the story ends roofied in a hotel room with pants around ankles and bank accounts all zeros.

that said, it is a delight to see interpretations of what i have expressed. i know exactly what it is i am driving at. i am intimately concerned with the meaning of what i have written. it is a concept that has been clawing at my mind for well over two years now. this is the point where i let things be instead of writing on and on (as i am prone to do) and take my leave with the mystery in place rather than have it treated to a philosophical examination.

for the record, both of you that have commented are seeing into this piece, but not all the way and not in the way in which i have come to understand so ravenously. but the point is not to be correct as far as i'm concerned. the point is to be correct as far as you are concerned. to know that you are correct because you do not care if anyone else believes you. you just are correct. but not out of stubbornness, out of true realization. i want to bow low and let my head hang below all others in the humility of which i place so much value. humility is the mountain i am climbing at this time.

nothing is not what you think it is. everything is what you think it is not.

[dwells]

Loved the conclusion to your perfect stranger metaphor expressed in your above comment Jsol. You have expressed the essence of something not often said about what we write. To be understood - or to be felt; all at the interpretation of the reader, and so many other intangible influences. Cheers again! - Dan

[MacUinseann]

jsol. I TRULY wish I had more to say, or LESS, perhaps. Despite its length, this piece was not narrative. Rather, it was a single thought, constantly growing in strength and expanding simultaneously. A regressive rhythm followed us from beginning to end, built with words both varied and beautifully chosen. And the title? Epic, and supported throughout. I found myself going back to the title as I read, trying to remember what I was searching for in the middle of such heavy thoughts. This is a poem that you could dissect...and dissect...and dissect. Complex, beautiful, and heavy. Superlative job. Oh, and I find myself completely agreeing with your comments above. To write with the sole idea of being 'completely' understood is intellectually dishonest. Thoughts come out best unvarnished. My work is cathartic, and it wouldn't be if I was always worried about it being understood. To this day, my favorite piece isn't understood in its entirety and seeing people 'take a stab at it' is always a pleasure. As you see, I blather as well. Once again, superlative job.

[Versus]

Though a bit abstract, The Sadness touched my heart again, and this time even more than before. I'm inclined, compelled to say: "Thank you very much.", and yet, that'd sound a bit like sadism, considering your big, but also broken heart. If there is anyone who could glue back together a soul shattered just like a mirror, that'd be: Cupid. Thanks for the read.

[jsol]

...yes, this is exactly what i am talking about. interpretations that are real and meaningful. interpretations, that though they aren't exactly what is meant in the poem, per se, they are complete in and of themselves and stand as true. if i were to break down the whole metaphor into its philosophical parts as they reflect what the poem is saying to me, then your "thank you very much" is so very true and not a bit like sadism. it is a syncopation with acceptance and the great unknown so pregnant with possibility. it is perfectly placed. there is no harm or fear in the breaking of a heart for all hearts break. death eliminates all tales that the mind is able to tell itself. tho there is sadness, there is no hurt.

[rupertpupkin]

Loved this piece. Well done on a most deserving spotlight! Great write