before the light of day

 

pre-dawn

when i can still be honest

 

~

 

my ghost walks before her mirror

an image appears

she walks away her image disappears 

 

it is an image she doesn't recognize

unfamiliar, not the image the words have formed

 

~

 

she can see things other cannot

this is her gift

she sees me, which isn't easy to do

 

~

 

colin's grandfather and i have become close

i tell him things

secret things, i don't know how or why he understands

but he does, and that's enough

 

i tell him about my ghost

how i take her hand in mine, how i bare myself before her

 

he doesn't blush or make jokes

though he must think i'm silly, i am

 

he listens, and is quiet, thinking—

thinking, i'm guessing, of someone he knew

someone who came into his life 

as she has come into mine

 

~

 

i tell him i ache for her, but i tell him this when it is dark

and after many glasses of wine

 

i ache for her all the time 

 

~

 

he says, in his gruff voice

where is she, quit your yammering

and go get her, bare your damn self before her

 

~

 

okay, i say, and close my eyes

and there she is

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 





Poetry by one trick pony The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 672 times
Written on 2016-01-17 at 14:11

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Jamsbo Rockda The PoetBay support member heart!
What a beautiful story. Some people understand us so well and sometimes it is those you would never expect to. Go to her, close your eyes and she is there. Nice.
2016-01-22



To have someone to tell of a yearning that is so deep and personal, and the grandfather listens, understanding the feeling and telling you simply to go to her, but she's already there, if you only wish her to be. Absolutely beautiful! ++
2016-01-19



This makes me feel like I a watching an old movie—not just a black and white movie but a really old movie—where everything is snowy and grainy and the sound is full of static and echoes. The image of this woman, who is presented as a reflection, is wonderfully ambiguous. Is she real? Is she a memory? Is she a fantasy? Is she all these things? She doesn't even recognize her image, because it is different than the image of her in words. What I most love about this poem is that this vague, pre-dawn mental state is counterintuitively the "most honest." "she can see things... she sees me." And this grandfather character, who in a more rational environment ought to be peripheral, sees things too: "i don't know how or why he understands," as if the seeing and the understanding are a mystery that transcend the fog, and she, whatever she is, is seen with eyes closed. And I like that we don't figure it out and are left with just the incomprehensible feeling: "i ache all the time for her." The experience of this poem is very memorable. It makes an impression with subtle ambiguity rather than blunt force, which is hard to do I think. And the grandfather's comment made me laugh, like a slap of earthiness in the fog, it struck a good balance.
2016-01-18



Wow I love this. That's all I can say right now in my stupid dawn brain since I have to go begin my day. But I will think about it and write a thoughtful response later.
2016-01-17