I'm sorry, a million times over,
but for what? All and nothing.
I meant well.
I was hopeful.
Weren't you?
Every beginning is a poison tree.
I know this and still I
tend each one as a favored child
and wear the blooms in my hair like an ingenue.
________
For Kerry's 55 Plus at Real Toads. The "plus" is to write with your favorite tearjerker song in mind. Here's mine:
"Each beginning is a poisonous tree"
ReplyDeleteA poison we gulp with glee.
The last stanza got me where it hurts most.
ReplyDeleteGood intentions - in vain, the poisonous tree says it all,
ReplyDeleteThorns and nails here, the price of deep abiding passions; wearing them like flowers in one's hair is like hanging a crucifix on a silver chain between one's breasts: both are articles of faith. A bittersweetness that makes those sad songs so good.
ReplyDeleteYes, the beginnings are often all potential, promise and hope--the middles wear it all away into weapons, and the endings drip with the fruit of that tree, pressed between unchangeable forces--but also with the knowledge gained, and the dormant desire to try again and raise something more nourishing. We are, in the end, only humans, I guess.
ReplyDeleteA PoiSoN TRee? Sucker-punch... ooooooof. Shay, you write with feeling
ReplyDelete"and wear the blooms in my hair like an ingénue"
ReplyDeleteThe innocence and hope is as painful as the rest.
The last stanza is excellent. The imagery is great, especially the bit about the ingenue. Clearly the speaker was no ingenue but unwisely she let herself pretend.
ReplyDeleteSome sad song you just have to love. This is one. And it teams so well with your poem. Oh yeah a yummy visit to your blog today
ReplyDeleteHave a good Sunday
Much love...
It is quite amazing how we repeat experiences like a refrain--your last stanza especially captures that freshness and the looming bitterness too. Thanks. k.
ReplyDeleteWow. Power in brevity
ReplyDeleteEvery beginning is a poison tree.
ReplyDeleteI love that.
ingenue...babe. perfect
ReplyDeleteI like reading this as if the speaker is the letter itself. Not so much the paper, but the essence, the heart. So I'm picturing love itself, as an incense, with flowers in its hair.
ReplyDeleteSo the letter has just arrived at its destination and isn't received the way it had hoped to be. And what if the old love is actually elderly? I think this is about a familial estrangement.
"I know this and still lie" ... clever.
Oh, that is so...human.
ReplyDeleteOh, how I can relate to this! But only you could write your wonderful last lines.
ReplyDeleteGreat insight there, FB. Beautiful and sad.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the tip on the icy hot wraps - I'll look for them at the drugstore. I have arthritis in my knee - having to wait for an appt with the rheumatolgist. It sucks getting old. :)
Ah yeah, I *was* hopeful, always hopeful at the start. Then the poison.
ReplyDeletePainfully perfect. Especially your closing stanza. Sigh. Ow.
ReplyDeleteI've known that cyclical process too - the hopefulness of being the ingenue. Also, any poem that sports a Burt Bacharach tune shows immense good taste. la la mosk
ReplyDelete