I’ve stopped uploading new works here. I’ve grown envious of the poets who take their time with their works. I don’t know if this is a realization or whatnot, but I just want to sit on my works for a while. Does anyone else believe that a single poem can be worth five years of thinking and preparation?
Funny, to think I was initially attracted to poetry because it’s “easy to make.” Although to be fair to my old self, I also liked it because of the five-minute life changing experiences.
The poem I’m posting is for a friend to read. It’s also one that I read at least once a week to remind myself of the times when poetry just gets it. So, in a way, I’m posting this to make my life easier too.
This is from Different Hours, which I first heard of when Jonats and Petra sang it praises on the English staff Yahoo Group, so many thanks to you guys, nagbago buhay ko, haha.
What Goes On
After the affair and the moving out,
after the destructive revivifying passion,
we watched her life quiet
into a new one, her lover more and more
on its periphery. She spent many nights
alone, happy for the narcosis
of the television. When she got cancer
she kept it to herself until she couldn’t
keep it from anyone. The chemo debilitated
and saved her, and one day
her husband asked her to come back —
his wife, who after all had only fallen
in love as anyone might
who hadn’t been in love in a while —
and he held her, so different now,
so thin, her hair just partially
grown back. He held her like a new woman
and what she felt
felt almost as good as love had,
and each of them called it love
because precision didn’t matter anymore.
And we who’d been part of it,
often rejoicing with one
and consoling the other,
we who had seen her truly alive
and then merely alive,
what could we do but revise
our phone book, our hearts,
offer a little toast to what goes on.