Friday, April 14, 2006

Things of the past...

A mad look and an impatient heart
A lost language and fading memories separate us
A blank face and unreturned calls
A Pair of scissors and misplaced glasses separate us
An empty bed and a crying cat
A broken face and a one way ticket separate us
But,
A picture torn in half
A hot casserole and a baked pie cry for your forgiveness
Endless nightmares and morning screams
A dying plant and a broken record cry for your forgiveness
Stacks of books and paintings
A baby that’s still waiting, crying for your forgiveness
But,
A shadow of another man
Long hours of work separate us
My unpredictable life
My separate world separates us
My lingering regrets
The elaborate nets separate us
So,
Take a good look
One last look
At half the picture
Half the memory
The other half I lost
For,
I don’t have your shoulder anymore
To lean on
I don’t have your arms anymore
I don’t have your lips, your eyes anymore
My shoulders are bare of your face
My heart will swim in no man’s affection
My letters are lost in your direction
Keep me a memory,
And when you close your eyes
And rest your head
Every night
In another bed
And when you take another
In your arms
And when you rest your face
On another’s lap
And when you make her wait
And when you break her home
And when you taste her food
And control her mood
And when you break her heart
Don’t think of me…

I don't think of you...

4 comments:

FZ said...

totally fantastic.
:) fz

Ghassan said...

Mirvat, your poem sounds like an exorcism sceance of an all consuming memory. it's lound and bold but doesn't seem to speak the truth.

Mirvat said...

thank fz :)

gus, what is the truth in the language of poetry exactly

FZ said...

"This is the use of memory:
For liberation—
not less of love but expanding
Of love beyond desire, and so liberation
From the future as well as the past...
History may be servitude,
History may be freedom.
See, now they vanish,
The faces and places, with the self which, as it could, loved them,
To become renewed, transfigured, in another pattern."
-T.S. Elliot