dannyboy

Under the Clocks


It was fifteen years ago
that afternoon we spent
wrestling naked in your bed -
and I mean wrestling;
my intentions
were far from honourable
whereas you always kept
your goddamn promises!

Into the late evening I relented
but only after you did
and we lay chatting for hours,
our words
hovering up near the ceiling
like stars,
and you lay
in the crook of my arm
and my soul
stilled its weary battle;
the hours drifted like sunshine.

It was fifteen years ago,
a single evening shared -
truth was
we were far too different
and I was eager
to be on my road,
to find a retreat
and write the next poem
while you were as still as any secret lake
hidden in the middle
of regarding trees.

Fifteen years,
a breeze,
things came my way,
news if you will,
mostly about that car crash
and your damaged brain.

Yesterday we met again
in the middle of the street
you were heading away
and I was crossing
to the famous clocks
of Flinders street station -
famous meeting place
and so we met
after fifteen years
but in truth we did not,
we could not,
you had fled -
your eyes dim and your mind
struggling to exist.

I am sure
many are happy you survived
and live
still
I wept that night
remembering that evening
fifteen years ago;
the girl in my arms,
the laughter, the life,
the light that flew out
from behind your eyes.

Truth was
we were too different;
you feverishly believed in your God
and I didn’t
and now
more than ever
I don’t.

journyman161

The road not taken can, even after years, wrack us with emotion. But I know that feeling of 'she's too religious for me' & have my own memories that this brought back.

No crit, just respect for another good one.

__________________
*He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary - William Faulkner (about Ernest Hemingway)
*Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words? - Ernest Hemingway (about William Faulkner)
*Thank you for sending me a copy of your book; I'll waste no time reading it - Moses Hadas
*He can compress the most words into the smallest idea of any man I know - Abraham Lincoln

Mac

*snap snap snap*

Loved it. Been there, wrestled the one that didn't quite let you get on with the nasty deeds, but didn't push you away either..

And the rest.. well, just loved it.

__________________
That is not poetry. That is not even writing. That is typing.

Kay

Haha, I've been that "she's too religious for me" girl (to quote Journyman) so I, perhaps, feel this poem's poignancy from a slightly different angle, but it is no less potent. I wonder how the girl would have come to regard her time with him had she not sustained such damage. I love the last stanza. Faith can sustain us when we are young, but it is our experiences that affect our beliefs as we grow older. and what an experience. at any rate, it is beautifully crafted. i especially like the lines
because i first considered the girl to be laying also in the "crook" of your soul before reading on. what a beautiful image.
(oh dear, i'm such a blubberer!)

dannyboy

thank you for your comments (the 3 of you) - this poem is not about a moment that wasn't ( and if you read again you'll actually see it was) nor about regret, just about a bright flame snuffed out by a stupid road accident and the sadness I felt all those years later when I met her and reality collided with memory.