Thursday, 10 March 2016

Rites of Spring OR L-I-F-E, Game of Chance


Loneliness is not only a sad condition but can also make a person bitter. We poets write about it, but it’s every lonely person’s private Hell and there’s nothing poetic about it all. The poetry comes with finding that someone special, often when and where you least expect it.

How long two lonely people having found each other will stay together may be anyone’s guess, but it’s a sure bet they will enjoy a taste of their own private heaven. Needless to say, the heart, too, has its seasons of which the most joyful (at any age) has to be spring.

Ah, yes, I remember it well...

RITES OF SPRING or L-I-F-E, GAME OF CHANCE

It was a winter of the heart,
craving spring, hungry for summer,
wondering where they’ve gone,
those sounds of laughter haunting
the ear? Why a pillow by mine
and no one there? I’m walking down
a street and all I see is feet,
protesting about being on their own
too long, falling in with others,
insisting it is where they belong

Seasons passed, cycle of pain
turning me, clockwork clown, going
through the same old motions
of getting by (fixed smile, dry eye);
till one night during Happy Hour,
there you were. For a while we took
comfort in drowning together,
letting our glasses relate the way
life's meant to be, you and me
against the world till... (maybe?)

True to say, in each other’s arms
we agreed to stay a while, no weeds
deceiving passers-by but flowers
as bright as daffs after April showers,
tail of a comet on the Milky Way,
favourite songs played over and over
by a late DJ till everyone‘s running
for cover but us, left savouring dreams
to share, richer for richer, no poorer
for chancing our luck then and there

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2016

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in 1st eds. of The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]


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