It is a most curious thing, that our hearts can hurt, beyond the physical, can feel the pain of a wound, brought on by emotional loss, absence, hurt, as was it a wound inflicted by a sharp knife, a hit, a punch, as it makes our heart feel it just the same, and as it needs time to heal, like all wounds physical. Emotional wounds just are invisible, and as such, one is often expected to bear them without notice, as if stoicism is a mark of honor, but all it does is make the pain deeper, and therefore longer to heal. This poem addresses this psychic pain we all have to deal with at times, this hidden pain that we hide behind big smiles and jokes that shrug it off, hidden silently behind this invisibility cloak, this mask of putting on an act, that all is well, since no one can tell any different, and we bear the pain alone, until it, and that part of our heart's story have vanished, asleep somewhere deep, in the recesses of our heart's memories. And sometimes, as a poet, you rebel, and try to put into words the unsaid, the taboo of hidden pain, of sorrow that left its mark on our soul's very bones:
The Riddle of the Bleeding Moon
It is a most curious thing, to have your heart bleed from within, to have its wound tear at you, and yet there is no red to be seen, no stream of it to alert, that something is wrong, no attention to be drawn, as the wound is inside, where no one can see it rushing in pain, through the rivers of our unseen tears.
*** ** ***
There is such a contradiction in its agony and its stifled song, that if by chance, some of the pain shows in your face, in the watercolors of your eyes, that the response is not kindness, but a strange sort of envy. It seems wounds of the heart, are in spite of all contrary remarks, a gift from above, only given to the brave.
*** ** ***
It is a most baffling thing, to feel this Schadenfreude coming from friend and foe, that takes an interest in our cause, as we try to understand this contradictory charity, towards the fight our heart now demands, to be able to breathe free of the numbing loss love can ask us to bear, out in the wilds of despair.
*** ** ***
But there is the comfort, of nature and its course, that no storm last too long, and after high tide comes low. So we walk on, hoping that the moment will come, when minutes no longer feel like hours, and the anesthesia sets in, to silence the screams unheard of the sweetness mourned, as they become a muffled melody whose notes slowly fade.
Trudi Ralston
"When love beckons you, follow him, Though his ways are hard and steep. And when his wings enfold you yield to him, Though the sword hidden among his pinions may wound you. And when he speaks to you believe in him, Though his voice may shatter your dreams as the north wind lays waste the garden."
Kahlil Gibran (1883 - 1931), on Love, in The Prophet (1923).
No comments:
Post a Comment