poetry

Unpredict[ability]

Macarons-lagrandeepicerie.JPG
By User:roboppy – EN WP http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Macarons-lagrandeepicerie.JPG, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3142295

 

My battle, most primal battle, all my goddamn

life has been, I see now in fairly fearsome

hindsight, and yet with favour and flavour and

even kindness too,

never to be the predictable being I knew.

And I knew, just knew, I was predictable as they

come: that life would move on for me just

as it moves on for everyone; and I refused to

give up on or share the love of a mother

who abandoned me for birth of next-along

brother, or maybe this was illness,

or maybe confusion of culture and

mucher

other

things that intervened in my life.

And so I remember, quite clearly,

at the age of sixteen, demanding to

myself never to find a happiness out there,

because I was a survivor, and survivors

remember victims, and people they

went and left way behind them.

And then I was predictable; I went and got

married, and the physical love I yearned for

to assuage my pain

of existential curiosity and existential

wane, waxed violently out of orbit so

I never was able to love the woman I loved

in the way that I actually needed.

And then something came along – you came long! –

and that’s when I realised I was made for love;

I was made for predictability;

I did just want to be another bird or bee.

Because the love of your skin, your heart and

your touch repaired a pain of lifetimes

spent resilient and cocooned, like marooned

macaron, all coloured and round and searching

for a mouth that only wanted to eat me my

whole, my very sweetness, my very own soul.

And if the kind of art I’ve begun to practise

is the kind of art that number-crunched by

you and your machines is just about as

predictable as anything anyone ever

drew with pen and ink, in fairly kinky

sectors of fairly kinky lives, unbolted and

uncovered like few people have ever known,

then I am now happy with being predictable:

for I have known a love which releases

and frees: and I have known a life of grand

satisfactions: and I know a wife who

loves both me and my children in the only

giving way she is properly able: and I come to

realise when change must be made – and the

change can be kind if that is what we choose,

and the kind I desire is the one that I do choose –

that whilst terrible return to terrible days

is no longer permissible for me or my

loved ones, my expressing myself openly about

the reality I have is already making me

a hopeful soul of love.

And where it is within my grasp to make others

hopeful, including my dearest wife and

wonderful children, I will do all I can to

sustain such a life:

I think this is good, and I think this is right.

 

And moving on is not only my right: it is the

right of everyone who is sovereign to choose their

destiny; and where terrible pain has been caused

in the past, the only possible connection can

last out of love.  And love doesn’t mean connections

can still be made firm; to be firm, one needs the

hurt to wander away so that

any path taken is free of emotional rift:

or at least is in the presence of the gift of

grand forgive.

 

I look to the future; experience the present;

and, ultimately, remember the past so very fondly.

To see these photos and read these words again –

photos of people and places all over my senses,

and places I lived

with family and friends,

places and moments I myself

have forgotten, places I really

would much rather manage to

remember and recall, in the clarity of sunlight

not the dark of fearful fall.

 

So I bear no grudge nor unkindness at all.

And maybe, if it is right, I can remind myself now

of all the good,

of all the faith,

I ever did trawl from my curious personal dark

blue sea of curious personal understanding.

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