poetry

Y miró …*

Joan Miró, 1920, Horse, Pipe and Red Flower, oil on canvas, 82.6 x 74.9 cm, Philadelphia Museum of Art.jpg
By Joan MiróPhiladelphia Museum of Art, PD-US, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=45651930

 

She was born to watch –

and she did.

And she watched everything they did.

And the colours were grand.

And the beauty around,

and the sound of laughter as it

tinkled a keyboard, like musical brooks

of wavering skies, brought her home

to that place that was good.

 

 

And he was tired of sadness, and he

was tired of badness, and he was

tired of madness, almost exclusively

riven and ridden through

pain.

There’s never a single solution to

anything; what’s more, there’s

never a single cause.

And so in the absence of a grander

explanation, they decided to call a kind of

truce: a trueness of truce, not to

truss up like Russell, a close friend of

theirs who studied in high place with

dog of strange yapping.

 

And he was tired of trying to work out the

world.  And he wanted that beauty

where the contemplation of another

was enough to enjoy the way

of his being: and he realised right now

that the example she’d once given –

as joyful in public as any kind of

lady waiting on marriage vows,

and bands of sweet reality – was an

example he’d helped to rub out.

It wasn’t all his fault, but a part of it

was: and his inability to act on his knowledge

meant that he was to be widely

considered a half to blame

for not having the courage to decide for the best

of everyone concerned; of everyone there.

For as man of the house it was his job to

see and carry the weight of the life

they were leading.

 

In the end she saw everything, and again

practically nothing.  And he saw nothing and

practically everything.

And between the two of them they’d be

losing almost all they’d ever had together.

And this wasn’t love, and they needed some

help.  And he wanted some help for them both.

But she saw the colours, and the beautiful

world that swirled like a girl in the bloom of

her youth … and so what could he say but agree with

every word?  He was a man of hopeless means,

whereas she deserved the earth.

 

He was so sad.

He was so bad.

He was so mad he even now believed that the world

which had driven him to paranoia and despair wasn’t

outside his homestead but within:

that all this time, he had thought it was the outer world

which had pursued him with fierce anger

when in reality it was that world he had

kept by his side.

This madness of his began to grow too:

where envy required one to covet another’s stuff,

he suspected that more than envy, it was a jealousy of

three parts: that maybe the person

he’d treasured all his life had actually been the

driver of most everything which destroyed.

 

Clasped in awful embrace of dependence, then,

he needed no lover now of decade-long existence,

but much more importantly

some way of breaking free and recovering that

world he might once have enjoyed where envy

remained in consumer domain

and jealousy of his being no longer could exist.

 


* Jealousy versus envy – a useful definition:

 

 

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