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I sat by the dark river
of letting go,
until I have forgotten of sound and sunlight,
and of love.
I sat there,
until you came like a noonday sun,
and pulled me behind you,
looking back, but not letting go.
For it is you,
my Eurydice,
who pulled me to life,
to sound and fury.
I built you a house,
you called it beautiful,
and my act lovely.
You will not spend the night.
I look outside the window,
and see you in the fields,
gifting your smiles to the crops,
as they turn to drink your light.
Your light,
when you turn this way,
paints the walls golden,
mends my soul whole.
I look outside the door,
and see you in the forest,
leaving fingerprints of gold,
on the wild things, that let you near.
Your laughter,
when you come and visit,
calls me forth to action,
and tells me change is possible.
I look at you,
my Demeter,
too busy giving life,
to dwell within.
I turn within,
to the dark shadows,
of this temple,
bereft of purpose.
I open the door to the cellar.
I step down the long staircase,
and sit again by the dark river,
my old friend.
Until you come again.
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This is The Empty House part 1, written before but posted after the second part. Thanks to @whoshim, @jrhughes, and @carolkean who provided feedback on this piece.
This piece draws upon and continues Acceptance, a piece published on January 29th. I recommend giving that a look as well, for unpacking imagery related to that used here, especially of The Dark River. It also relates to some of the same themes.
Check out my latest posts:
* The Empty House (II) - Poem and poetic rule unlearning.
* The Retired Prophet - A poem.
* K-On! Like Lying in the Sun on a Warm Afternoon
[IMAGE: https://steemitimages.com/DQmYc3Ncto2Q52AeT5TKxTuyoCNtYnY5Ytze7hEU8hiNonj/IOW%20COLOR%20LOGO.png]
Art and flair courtesy of @PegasusPhysics
Image is a promotional image of Morpheus, the titular character from Neil Gaiman's The Sandman. All rights owned by the respective owners, image is used under fair use.
© Guy Shalev 2018.
I remember this river, we've sat here before and it feels good to be back.
Again, this is, whew, to say vulnerable? It's almost, the following by the hand and the joy in observation, a translucent cloth over a patient heart and a patient mind and the virtue of patience.
Yes, the river is going nowhere, the house is built and is, the crops cycle and cycle back; yes, patience is here.
But, so to the healing. For me as the reader, it's almost difficult to see the narrator viewing the Goddess and not see an eye for one who is giving all of herself to others, to the world, to warmth and light and creative energy, and, while that's amazing to be around, it must also be taxing.
So many mixed emotions, so beautifully told - your imagery is so poignant here, like seeing a photo with high contrast and tint.
Of course, you're never one to use words without purpose, but, even so, a couple stanzas in here that were monumental:
>Your laughter,
when you come and visit,
calls me forth to action,
and tells me change is possible.
and
>I built you a house,
you called it beautiful,
and my act lovely.
You will not spend the night.
Styx in your basement, and you tell me that I dwell too often next to the realm of the dead =-)p
Loved this piece, Guy, so glad it's getting more comments than many of your poems I usually feel this way about. <3
>I remember this river, we've sat here before and it feels good to be back.
It feels good to be back? Man, if ever there was a place I think this comment is inappropriate :P
Patience, but also going to where life does not flow. To where one casts the hurt away.
And yes, the Goddess is a goddess. Hers is life to give, at least while her daughter is present. Hers is life, and death. And responsibility, and being looked to, can be hard.
Also, it is not about dwelling with death, but being in love with it. Death, like life, just is. It is us who fall in love with things. And with goddesses.
And thank you kindly, Alain. You know, as someone who is on the receiving end of my comments, that it's not the count, but the quality. The quality of comments such as yours <3
You know Carol, that's a really good question.
Before I answer it, I want to say something. It could be seen as flippant, or as a deflection, but it isn't. Poetry is literature, and you certainly know that what we take out of literature depends on what we put in. Literature doesn't exist on the page, but in the place where text and reader meet.
As such, I will say that what you read in the text may not be "there", from my perspective. But since this is literature, that is just fine. The piece spoke to you, and it may speak in a different tone than the one I intended.
But it may also be that I put something there, and just didn't consider it.
Now, to the answer.
From the poetic side, it'd be quite a different piece, with very different themes, if it rested on what the writer brings to the table, to her. It wouldn't really be a piece of longing. And it'd quite likely be a longer piece. But regardless, it'd be a different piece. Not better, or worse. But different.
From the prosaic side, who speaks of what they have done for others? Politicians, and people crying over how they are not properly appreciated. This is not how you convince people. You are not the person to say what you can give another, because who's to say they ever asked for what you are giving? That side is left for her to give, to say what the poet is giving her. Any attempt from him to do so is folly.
