Normally I remember quite vividly one or two dreams per night. But last night the sole memory I had of any dream was this line spoken by someone else. I do not remember to whom the line was directed, but it was the very last thing I dreamt before I awoke:
"I will miss even your flow of tears when I am gone."
Its spoken cadence in the dream reminded me of the e.e. cummings poem that Michael Caine points out to Barbara Hershey in Hannah and Her Sisters--somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond, especially that wonderful closing line:
"nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands"
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15 comments:
You ought to run a poetry contest using that line as the last line of a poem. You could offer a signed MB photo as a prize!
ps. my words is unister - a girl who is the only female sibling of brothers.
A poem.
Dreams are fleeting,
Rivers are meeting,
Dams are breaking,
Tears are aching.
I hypothecate to, redundenate, my,
Repeatification of your hate-ified fate.
Only the rain has tiny hands,
And yo tears be flowin like a mighty mighty Streamaticity of broken dreamifications.
Will I miss even your flow of tears when you're gone?
Nowhere, foo'.
PS my word -- tubcming. I wanted to work it into the poem, but dis a family site.
AD-redundenate may be my new favorite word.
A poem:
You should take my pretty handkerchiefs when I am gone.
Cry your fill to their embroidered lillies and small cats.
Hang them out to dry and and leave them for so long
That the wind carries them away and leaves you nothing.
You will of course have memory, but that will fade away,
Leaving you to mourn for clumsiness and a memento withdrawn.
But know that I will miss you, and your smile, and your laugh.
I will miss even your flow of tears when I am gone.
I. Love. This.
Which is why I won't contribute.
Except to say "Yonshrad, what tears do break?"
My word wins.
Anon --
Let me just say this about that.
Your word don't win. A word that rhymes into a phrase with then sounds Shakespearean, does not win. Not over tubcming, not over no how. Sorry, nope.
Nada.
Now. Next subject. The Blog will not be worse with a poem entry from you. It will be better. Therefore -- unhookify, your entangulated overbosity, on our, uh, articulified audiencificated sense of, yourself.
Translatorophony: Speak to us.
A.
My new word on this posting -- "subarutt," meaning "the root of all small cars."
Andy D--I couldn't have said it better myself. As you well know. And as you enjoy pointificatarizing to me.
Anon-listen to MB and Andy! Play at poetry with us! Agratext!
Hands clasp lightly at the last,
drawing comfort closer still.
Decorum prods where practice ends
and calls for summing words.
Good sounds trite and tried seems weak,
What is the measure of fine form?
Offering all I thought to give
seems cruelly not enough.
A restful litany births itself
of that which matters most.
I list the traits I’ve loved throughout,
and finally offer peace through self.
A softening grasp on a sideways view,
lends calm where anxious reigned,
I whisper thanks; words take final sound and form as I try on death for size.
I assure myself in the kindest way,
I will miss even your flow of tears when I am gone.
________________________
Don't be a doofpfl - write about the flow of tears!
OH! A triumphant death-saturated return to the blog for Justcurious!
All is right with the world.
When in Rome...
love the profile pic. VERY nice.
Well thank you very much. I do dig shadows. That is my dining room wall for a few minutes as the afternoon sun blazes through the china cabinet and my great-grandmother's stemware (HA - I said stemware just for you!).
May I say that you all (except Andy) are bringing me down with your beautiful sad, sad poems.
thank you Andy for consistently making me laugh. And why do I feel that we could really make this site offensive if we combined your word "tubcming" with mine "juwzing"?
And now, my own attempt to be as depressing as all of you, especially my dh, already are.
.
.
.
Nope.
I was about to type my first sentence and I started getting teary. And like a normal person....a normal Nordic person...I stuffed those feelings down deep where I don't have to think about them. So there!
I may miss even your flow of tears when I am gone, but at least I will know that I wasn't blubbering all the time like I very well could have been! Don't you dare get me started!
I see your haikus and death poems, and raise you a death limerick:
I feel like in chess I'm a pawn
I feel in a crowd I'm withdrawn
And this blog is sad
Full of death it is clad
I will miss even your flow of tears when I'm gone
Bravo, mismorte. That really is my word. Even the blog is getting in on the death thing.
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