No more, no little could words do
To paint such glorious gain
That I thereupon derived such speechlessness
And lapsed into abstract refrain.
The depth of such colour
So marvellous and true
Describes the depth of my emotion
In such striking similitude…
What gift is there greater
Than the one that brings truth?
The cards to play are in my hand
This hourglass is filling up
With each grain of sand
Each one a little more pertinent
Than before
Adding to the tragedy
Of this untimely flaw
Where is the rapturous love
With whom I passed
Many blissful days?
Did her love weaken
And with the grains of sand
Wash away?
For what has been lost
May never be absolved
And yet Love’s sweet residue
Remains hidden within the folds
Never to be touched
By the hands of another,
Else she lies resplendent with deceit
And I, her destitute lover.
What prevails except
The silence within?
You speak no words
And so my thoughts
Are reflected in
And yet I have made my heart
A wealthy storehouse of love
To show you that for me
Your happiness is enough
But instead tis trapped
In this enslavement of solitude
In which several worlds collide;
Several parts of my being
From which I cannot hide
Such as the subdued anger
Of my repudiated self
Which awaits rejuvenating,
To be restored to natural health.
Unbind me
From the wrath of Grief
That withers away
My countenance;
It robs me of the joys of life
As would a thief
Tear out
The silence of inexplicable woe
That feeds this solitude;
It agonises my body and soul
More than you’ll ever know
Dark, miserable monstrosities
That threaten to overwhelm me
Might be banished
From my being tonight
Had I but found an affection
Half as sweet
As my one gentle love
That I was to meet
And love for the rest of my life
Floating through this life
That sometimes seems
Endlessly surreal
Trying to chase
The wasted dreams
I can no longer feel.
For once I must beckon myself
Back into the world
From which I came
And not slip into the clutches
Of Lust’s twisted game.
But Time keeps passing by
Like a stranger in the street
With curiosity I listen closely
Following the sounds of its feet
Until suddenly it disappears
And I’m left meandering
Alone
Wondering, forever wondering
If my love will ever come back home.
It is already too late;
The chorus has played its part
Now gather all your belongings
And fold away that melancholy harp
This tragedy has outstayed its welcome
Please advise for it to leave;
Take all the mourners with you
And in another place they can grieve
For too long has this sorrow
Taken up residency;
It’s time the uninvited guest
Bid farewell
To the lady
That bore presidency
And made what was little heavenly
A little hell
Oh how I long for those days
Where we are but momentarily united!
I’d no longer gaze down despairingly
At our separation and fight it
Or wonder at how
My connection to you vanished
Not much later than it started
Without even a word
From our once adoring spectators
Who then departed
Oh yes, I’d seize the moment
With all my might,
Eradicating any existence
Of so wretched a respite
And turn to you
With so loving a gaze as before
And cry beseechingly:
“Don’t you understand…?
It is your love I implore!”
But the lady doth pity win;
Turning my love for her into anger
Would be turning myself to sin
And so I must carry
My heavy heart
Such as raw flesh on a plate
Believing in the cause
Of a love revival
That I hope won’t arrive
Too late.
Carried on the winds of virtue
My heart breathes hardly a sigh,
Whilst I ride out this loveless mystery
Hardly knowing why
The rains of this wild tempest
Have just begun
As I try to unravel desperately
The tragedy that was spun
Across the strings of my heart
Where you reigned
Across the strings of my heart
Where courage feigned
I know not why
This fate was ever sealed
Or how it broke the heart
I thought had healed
But in the end they say
Are better things to come;
Renewal and growth
Promised by Love’s oath
To those that surpassed the weakness of some
If writers are but the engineers of the human soul, then I consider it not only my intention, but duty to profess the very living and breathing emotions wrought upon the soul.
Pain, anguish and suffering cannot be escaped, but their burdensome nature may indeed be lifted by the words used to express the abundant misery that they cause.
For a writer who claims to be able to paint a picture with words to then withdraw him or herself and refrain from doing so is not only shirking responsibility, but admitting defeat to the very atrocities that arrest the soul.
How many times in literature have we come across expressions such as:
‘…such as no language can describe’
‘Inexplicable grief’
‘No utterance capable of expressing’
Doubtless there are others, but these are just a few I have found.
Can it really be that the intensity can be such that words cease to express meaning? And yet it is in their cessation that we are infiltrated with clichés that render the value of such emotion useless; and thus the reader has no concept of what spurred such speechlessness and is left bewildered, abandoned and at the mercy of the writer whose very profession it was to portray with words the mystery of the human soul.
Or perhaps, young and naïve as I may be, it is that I haven’t experienced sufficient pain and suffering for the very words that first described them to become worthless remnants of what too, may become a lost art.
I hope with all my heart that this may not be the case. I hope that one day a new wave of writers may rise up to depict with words, the grief and sorrows that afflict our generation. Even if there is nothing novel in it, at least we can say we share the same pain in which our predecessors suffered terribly.
And yet there is no use in harking back to the ages of writers, who although related the portrayal of grief in such a timeless nature, have now become obsolete in a generation that favours post modernity over antiquity.
One need only look to Shakespeare or Greek tragedy to understand the profundity of emotion experienced in the wake of soul-destroying events.
In Shakespeare’s ‘The tragedy of Anthony and Cleopatra’, we witness just how profoundly Cleopatra is afflicted with grief by the loss of her lover:
“Shall I abide in this dull world, which in thy absence is no better than a sty?”
Shakespeare did it. He mastered the effect grief has upon humanity and indeed the representation of stoicism on the part of his protagonist, Cleopatra.
Where then, are the writers of the modern era? It is my sincere hope that the writers of today (my aspiring-self included) should attempt to scale the brilliance of writers gone past in hope to be on a par with all that they achieved.
You are the only one
Who makes my heart rise
And fall slowly;
The only soul that has ever
Really known me.
I’ve never come to love so much;
Now I can hardly bear to be
Separated from your touch.
You are the energy that helps
Me breathe freely;
At night when we caress
I can finally sleep easy.
Please don’t ever fall
For the kindness of a stranger;
The road is full of lust
And leads only to danger.
Just remember that
I am always here by your side
I will always love you
And that cannot be denied.
Catherine Lucy Rowland 