The Poet

October 25, 2012

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

And with a thousand rhymes,
I’ve lost a thousand times
for none of them did last.
Every love I ever wrote
has faded into past.
And every girl I write to life,
I take to higher climes,
with deeper loves and longer verse
but every foray ends the same
– as though I have been cursed –
for every poem ends in pain,
a trend that’s growing worse.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

But for a thousand years
or so it seems,
I’ve written only tears.
And a thousand dreams
have left me only fears,
for none have ended happily.
Just like all my poetry;
When the final line is writ
I am left with only me
and any light that might have lit,
once the poem ends, dies with it.
And the thousand loves I’ve brought to be
have all thus waned inevitably.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

Oh, I have loved a thousand women;
None of them were real.
Not one of them could feel
the love I felt for her.
The heartbeats that I wrote
were never really there
and all the forms my pen caressed
and all the faces fair,
all the golden hair
and all the moments shared
existed only on the page,
the fickle paper stage
I made for them
to dance upon,
for them to love me on –
I, the only one who ever cared.

I have loved a thousand women;
none of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles
and a thousand frowns
around a thousand pairs of eyes.

A thousand dreams;
a thousand lines;
a thousand rhymes;
a thousand smiling pairs of eyes;
a thousand women
in my mind.
And if my mind’s where they must be,
then what is in this world for me?
Why live on interminably
if I must be so lonely?
A thousand loves I’ve had;
a thousand lives I’ve lived
and yet I’m left so sad.
For they are all behind
but who’s to say that they weren’t real?
And who’s to say that I won’t find
a thousand more in time?
I only need to write another opening line…

I have loved a thousand women;
all of them were real.
I’ve written a thousand lines
around a thousand smiles.
I’ve lived a thousand lives
and loved a thousand times,
all inside my mind.
So why go back outside?

 

-D&W

Read more: Poetry Here and Now

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November 3, 2011

Always traffic and this damned heat.

She sat beside him, in the passenger seat, silent. She was always silent in the car.

It had been five minutes since they had last moved and he had sat there for five minutes in a strange and awkward limbo.

Though he tried not to, he couldn’t help but assess her silence.

Was she silent because she didn’t want to speak to him?

Was she silent because she was waiting for him to speak first?

Was she silent because she was thinking the same?

He sat there, frozen by his own over-analysis, wanting to speak and not wanting to both at the same time and speculating about the possible outcomes of each. Schrodinger’s car journey.

Finally, after another two or three or maybe a hundred minutes, he opened his mouth to speak. Then, feeling an overwhelming dryness like drowning but in open air, he closed his mouth again and struggled to swallow.

Now he was terrified that she might have noticed. Perhaps she was sat there now, disgusted either at his cowardice or else at his daring to break the silence between them.

He had no idea and he had to know. But he couldn’t look. His eyes were fixed on the unmoving car in front and vaguely on the long line stretching out ahead. His neck began to ache from fighting the urge to turn and his eyes almost took it upon themselves to glance across or check the mirror to see what they could see.

The longer this went on, the more unnatural it felt. The silence was normal – she was always silent in the car – but surely she’d notice his artificial stiffness eventually.

His face began to prickle, sting, burn and he was sure it must be turning red. He felt like he had to do something and at the same time, like he had to fight even harder to remain distant. It was killing him.

The car was so hot from the summer sun and his broken air-conditioner that the heat began to feel like a solid presence in the car with them, between them. It was stifling him and he felt sure it must be the same for her.

Finally, some way out ahead, he saw the line break and movement began to ripple towards him the way waves travel along a length of rope when you whip it at one end.

The car in front started to roll forward and at long last, he released the hand-brake, slowly reduced pressure on the clutch pedal and placed his other foot back on the accelerator.

The car began to vibrate and, as they moved for the first time in too long,without a word he felt her hand gently rest on his knee.

viii. Why

July 15, 2011

I enjoy doodling but I don’t consider myself much of an artist.
However, I like to think that I’m not a bad writer.

With that in mind, I would like to present what follows as a ‘Visual Poem’:

A 'Visual Poem'

vii. Darkness Deep

July 14, 2011

Soft moonlight skips across her face,
sets shadows dancing, giving chase
to darkness deep within her eyes.

A single look can give no clue
to what exactly she’s been through;
such darkness deep within her eyes.

Late night, no other passenger
but him and her, a prisoner
of darkness deep within her eyes.

He casts a smile across the breach
to see if he can’t somehow reach
through darkness deep within her eyes.

Her face shows not the faintest sign
of recognition, rendered blind
by darkness deep within her eyes.

It looks as though she has been wrenched
from consciousness, her mind entrenched
in darkness deep within her eyes.

As he steps off, a final look
tells him without a doubt, she’s stuck
with darkness deep within her eyes.

Her happiness has been enslaved
he knows that she will not be saved
from darkness deep within her eyes.

One cannot always choose the way things will be.
One day things just didn’t work out the way they should.
One day I was just a few minutes late.
One day I fell ill and couldn’t leave the house.
One day I fell in the road on my way and never made it.
One day I fell in love.