|
About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
|
She Said...
She said we'd never met before,
but I knew that wasn't true.
I heard her with the heart's ear,
even if distant from sight,
for she walked within caverns
where the sun was hidden,
missing the stars and the milky way,
but she became the subject of my hymns,
although I stood aloof.
In the torrent of blood, I cannot say if
her work was finished or if it was
my silence who pushed her down, but
like an onyx rose who twined herself with thorns,
she swayed with each gust
in dark tunnels,
searching for shadows.
I never knew which language she understood best,
the lukewarm, sugared kind
or the direct one with significance,
and her undefined annoyance
didn't wait for me
for the things I wanted to say.
Maybe I had arrived too late;
maybe in her last bed, she forgot
she was my mother.
We'd met but she didn't know me.
|
© Copyright 2006 Joy (joycag at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
|
