Thanks to Pure Pedantry for posting this poem today.
A Book Of Music
by Jack SpicerComing at an end, the lovers
Are exhausted like two swimmers. Where
Did it end? There is no telling. No love is
Like an ocean with the dizzy procession of the waves' boundaries
From which two can emerge exhausted, nor long goodbye
Like death.
Coming at an end. Rather, I would say, like a length
Of coiled rope
Which does not disguise in the final twists of its lengths
Its endings.
But, you will say, we loved
And some parts of us loved
And the rest of us will remain
Two persons. Yes,
Poetry ends like a rope.(Hat-tip: Poets.org)
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I (probably) understand your sentiment in this statement, friend: I am hoping for as little pain as possible for all concerned.
ReplyDeleteI want to point out to all, though, that it has been through pain that many grow by leaps and bounds. Pain can be a tremendous tool, if we open to it and the messages contained instead of contracting into fear and aversion.
Hey Colin,
ReplyDeleteI agree completely, but in this case I am not sure of the other people involved and their ability to sit with and learn from pain.
I should say that I hope everyone gains some growth from this experience, however it works out.
Peace,
Bill