poetry, short short story, trails of thought

W[heard]s*

 

He never thought to con-

template the

day that words heard in corridors so beauty-

filling were passages of candle-lit rites –

never wrongs tho’, never wrongs in a thousand years of

wrongs – nor that a redeem-

tion of sorts could be theirs to take on and

win – lottery-like – the very best prize-

d bull you’d suddenly want to go and take

by the horns.

What was wrong tho’ was to say it could have been

any other way: the ways of life have many

paths and roots and shoots of impish green and

elf-like lovened breads of browned

tradition where reasons why became causeways

of explanatory flot-

sams: men and women who realised that being

woman or man means outgrowing the

child we carried around until we

noticed surprised, like news only to ourselves … for the rest

of the world had heard the words that were

written like passages of rightings to make the

universe

fine a-

gain: in its splen-

dour and dolor, but importantly, manly, womanly,

in a love which had never failed a true

test of time: a test so unwillingly, slowly, gradually breached and yet

gladly suffered for far too long.

How foolish we are in the love that is plain for

Jane and her followers to see: nothing is plainer than love

fully felt; nothing more velvety than the rough touch

of tongue on tongue on tongue of wrongs

now awaiting their

writing.

 


 

* A beautiful comment by the author, anthonymize, of the magnificent poem one dot- leads to a blot, led me – provoked me perhaps I should say – to write today’s post.  Do read the comment when you can.  It contains a wonderful short video of Eminem on words, which I’ve already reposted at the top of today’s trail of thoughts.  There’s also a quote attributed to banksy:

Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.

To which I found myself replying:

Bend the words – so we don’t bend ourselves out of shape.

And if truth be told, this is a thought I have lived with for the past decade or so, since a person I really treasure – as one would locket with sepia photo, buried intimately next to timeless heart – used to insist so proudly, so finely, so grandly, so correctly, so lovingly, so encompassingly, so kindly … that the prime goal in life should be to ensure we were never bent out of shape by its march: neither by its arrival nor its leaving.

Life is there not to be survived but lived throughout in full.

And she was the ballsiest, handsomest woman you ever met.

And I would hope we might all fall in love with the person I treasure.  I would hope we might all fall in love with this idea.  I would hope one day I might treasure – once again – the daily expression of the love I once briefly saw.  But if none of the above might occur ever for me, by remitting myself once more to the thoughts that heard such words, I know I could now survive only surviving without her.

Except that I’m no longer prepared just to survive.

I want more of life than survival.

Don’t you?

 

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