* * *
You, who perfected all my bad times.
You, who excelled healing my wounds.
Just you, who made me write those words.
Nothing,
Just
You.
Dikter om ämnet: wound
Dikter om ämnet ”wound” på Poets.by.
Afterwards
The pain comes much later, first
in trickles, then in torrents
Washing off, cleansing
Wounds, hurts, the memories
The thoughts of should-haves
and should-have-nots.
First to heal are those
festering, anger for
What they did -
and did not.
Then, those of regret
of what you did -
and did not.
Then, like a sunbeam
breaking out through the clouds
The realization that everything
The Blind 1
red thread the open wound
and from it the red rivulet
will drain into the metal dish
and curl into water
no more now
it is just a stitch
stitches
the wound gash drawn in and thread
dust of glass in the wound ground in
round the heel and spiral down into
blue glass pummelled beyond crystal
a useless moon dust
pounded to glass
the red thread
lets no light in
the shards are small
Sequins
red on gold under gold the red thread will tie in the sequin
the dress will transform from the funerary gown of soft cloth
metal pearl mother-of-pearl the peacock sequins emphasise
the scar : where it was cradled in soft cloth it shifts with light
it now shifts with light
a battle armour with shiny metal frilling
a mail-coat
an armoured dress
the metal frill catches and disperses light from
embonpoint to point of candlelight it is no dust
no accretion of dust occurs in the music of fabric
flame does not show yellow in blue blue glass
sequin it : it hides the wound
sequin it: with the red thread
sequin it : the loosed skein
tack it in stitch on stitch and
Seventy-Eight
A meadowlark
guarded her eggs,
practicing on me
the ruse of
a broken wing.
I have guarded
my wounds from you
twenty years
the same way.
Other
When I draped it around myself I found it wasn’t fur it was alive and
wouldn’t let go
So I danced with the bear and got to know the lightness and
seriousness of its hands
Delicately with cultured paws it tore at my flesh and stopped for
some other thought
What does a half-wed do
What can a half-wed do
Keep the wound lush
Smile in secret
Stay in bed
By day freckles pop mustard seeds
By night moon glosses grain on lake rims
Secrets
Secrets
infesting my half-sleep...
did you enter my wound from another wound
brushing mine in a crowd...
or did I snare you on my sharper edges
as a bird flying through cobwebbed trees at sun-up
carries off spiders on its wings?
Secrets,
running over my soul without sound,
only when dawn comes tip-toeing
ushered by a suave wind,
and dreams disintegrate
like breath shapes in frosty air,
I shall overhear you, bare-foot,
scatting off into the darkness....
I shall know you, secrets
Skyway Robbery
Night, leaning there upon the hills.
What robber cloud has dared?
The great white pearl you wore,
Hung from your glittering chain of stars,
Is gone:
And in its place a red wound drips
Its anguished light.
The Wounded Bird
In the wide bed
Under the green embroidered quilt
With flowers and leaves always in soft motion
She is like a wounded bird resting on a pool.
The hunter threw his dart
And hit her breast,--
Hit her but did not kill.
“O my wings, lift me--lift me!
I am not dreadfully hurt!”
Down she dropped and was still.
Kind people come to the edge of the pool with baskets.
“Of course what the poor bird wants is plenty of food!”
Their bags and pockets are crammed almost to bursting
With dinner scrapings and scraps from the servants’ lunch.
Oh! how pleased they are to be really giving!
“In the past, you know you know, you were always so fly-away.
Perspective
Some day
I shall be glad that it was mine to be
A dark fore-runner of a race burgeoning;
I then shall know
The secret of life's Calvary,
And bless the thorns
That wound me!
For Eager Lovers
I understand what you were running for,
Slim naked boy, and why from far inland
You came between dark hills. I know the roar
The sea makes in some ears. I understand.
I understand why you were running now
And how you heard the sea resound, and how
You leaped and left your valley for the long
Brown road. I understand the song
You chanted with your running, with your feet
Marking the measure of your high heart's beat.
Now you are broken. Seeing your wide brow
I see your dreams. I understand you now.
Since I have run like you, I understand
The throat's long wish, the breath that comes so quick,
The heart's light leap, the heels that drag so sick,
And warped heat wrinkles, lengthening the sand. . . .
Harmon Whitney
Out of the lights and roar of cities,
Drifting down like a spark in Spoon River,
Burnt out with the fire of drink, and broken,
The paramour of a woman I took in self-contempt,
But to hide a wounded pride as well.
To be judged and loathed by a village of little minds—
I, gifted with tongues and wisdom,
Sunk here to the dust of the justice court,
A picker of rags in the rubbage of spites and wrongs,—
I, whom fortune smiled on!
I in a village,
Spouting to gaping yokels pages of verse,
Out of the lore of golden years,
Or raising a laugh with a flash of filthy wit
When they bought the drinks to kindle my dying mind.
To be judged by you,