2024-03-06
by
Eleanor Goldfield
A symphonic grief –
played atonally and oppressively loud ---
the percussion intermittently and without warning
Banging on a battered heart,
crashing cymbals on a hangover;
the strings whining in mid-day trills of tears,
obsessively, oppressively plucking, picking -
at a shredded soul;
the woodwinds howling -
as reeds of insanity twist
in an unsteady breeze;
and the brass - trumpeting anger and resentment -
at the impenetrable metal -
of uncontrollable emotion.
No one keeps time – there is none.
The rests are fitful – the silence deafening.
The end is blocked by a repeat :||
the coda threatens to split into an unbearable new piece –
piece by piece I collect these notes –
defeated but seething, I sing –
I sing what is me, my grief –
my hate that my love made replete. :||
Grief –
that cold consuming storm
suffers no lack of description –
is not tempered by ignorance or experience –
even the most fortified succumb –
as if solid stone were nothing
but stacked blades of grass...
and as we flail in this wind,
our bodies lash and our limbs fly frail –
the siren call of calm feels ludicrous –
absurd, impossible –
at best a discredit to the spring of this storm...
I can weather this?
with my mind fixed
on its would be assassin –
or if I can not - I will die
and in death become a conduit of tempests –
a passive passage for cold consuming storms –
a repeater circuit,
stuck in a groove of its own electricity.
But no, I do not want this storm to take me –
I am not ready for my soul to pass
to this storm's whipping whims.
I can not control it –
any more than I can control the weather –
but I may weather it.
Cliche – but for a reason -
This treason to poetry a relief for my solitude
Still, I may find a hole in the depths of myself –
one I have never seen before –
I may carve it out of my living breath –
create it in this jagged slow haste
that mocks the passage of time –
and as I dig I will falter –
find myself stuck in the toxic mud that theories my arrogance -
for if I am worthy of outliving this storm,
am I not pedestaling my own life
above the sunken soul
that gave birth to these winds?
I will fumble with answers and find none that fit –
I will scrape myself raw -
building a bunker that keeps the wind out,
but floods with the surges I let rinse my doubt.
And so we will dance, this damned storm and I –
unfit partners cast in this twisted remake -
we will blow and shout and rumble
the storm will be no worse for wear –
it will pass as senselessly as it came –
it will polish the sky so the brilliance will blind –
but I
will never be the same
yes, the storm will pass – but this jagged abyss will remain -
that bunker will keep – an imprint -
a macabre fossil of pain
and I will visit again –
before the end.
I'm quite sure.
The clouds overhead promise me so –
passing silently
over the ruins of my freshly dug depths – grave.
At time it will seem impossible – that I ever was there –
that this storm and I ever came to blows –
but then I'll hear an echo –
of rumbles, I'll see -
reflections in someone's drenched eyes -
and then I'll feel it -
the press of that imprint – gripping my mind.
Another day, another forecast
another questioning sky
another fragile step outside.
Musicians holding notes
carrying tunes
beautiful baggage
cleft between
hallowed and hollowed
noise and silence
chaos and the ordered melee of song
an empty page
likewise an empty stage
the weight of it
must we listen to the void
the abyss is not vacant but virtuoso
prodigal and prolific
seductively prophetic
a siren song to your end that began it all
bereft
the reverberations
in my chest
in the floor
the ringing in my ears
a bliss I do not dare feel
for feeling
is a grief I haven't yet
been able to play
I wanna lay my head on your shoulder
the budget sweater that was washed too many times now not enough
rinsed by rainfall, dried by breeze
smelling of sap, sweat and struggle
they tell you to take time to grieve
but how do you carve out that time
from the felled limbs of family
trees leveled by a storm of greed
do I send out a doodle poll for that?
Because every time I want to take the time
I struggle to breathe
and a million years of learned reaction
spreads the wings of flight
and I don't fight
the need
to calm the waters
and let the lapping waves release
a shallow ebb
of selective memory
and once again
I do not grieve
I float on a sunrise
I rest my head on ghosts
and I am weightless
as a reflection
the mirror holds no demons
it merely serves them up to me
tonight I will not take them
I made no date with grief
I will frolic in the fields and woods of dreams
where I swear I once did weave
a promise for tomorrow
that yesterday deceived
and I will smell of sap and sweat and struggle
and we will lay our heads upon this tree
and pretend she still can hold us
a triptych I visit
on bended knee
now a ragged grave
of all we hoped we'd save
yet
I can not grieve