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You’re startled and offended now
by tears that won’t stop flowing.

You’d cheerfully assumed that tears,
that weeping, woe and sorrow
Could be outgrown like dungarees,
like broken toys and scabby knees
Or at the latest,
calculus and cricket.

But grief, unasked in adulthood,
Roams now through your ribcage, howling.

Grief storms your spirit’s citadels
to pierce hearts and poison wells
on night after swollen, sodden night
And howling,
ever howling, ever hungry.

Grief, like a wounded lion
bleeding lavishly across some blond savannah.
It savages new mornings' hopes,
tears throats from soft-eyed antelope,
Grief harbours no compassion
in the sea-roar
of its anguish.

And stubbornly bereaved
although the cause lost substance long since
(Wept into Rorschach,
swallowed up
into seven starving stomachs)
Your pain is faceless, frameless now
and yet as indigestible as ever.

No, grief is not outgrown,
is not parlayed, disarmed or conquered.
It feeds on your flesh now
And is not stilled
And does not sleep
And is not sated.


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Comments

The following comments are for "Where The Wild Things Are"
by MobiusSoul

Very nice
I enjoyed this poem immsensely. The fact that humans outgrow many things except grief is kind of intense.

You’d cheerfully assumed that tears,
that weeping, woe and sorrow
Could be outgrown like dungarees,
like lollipops and scabs-on-knees
Or at the worst,
like calculus and cricket.


Loved this stanza. Great cadence and description, def. one I myself and many others can relate too. You nailed this poem at the end. Very nice read, thanks for sharing.

( Posted by: Essence [Member] On: March 21, 2007 )

Monsters
not under the bed, but in the head and in the heart.

and unlike the wild things in the kids' book, grief and loss refuse to be tamed...

beautiful this. skilful alliterations and trip-off-the-tongue cadence galore… the language for describing loss is sweeping and dramatic, as it should be. and its effect upon the ill-prepared human soul is astutely observed, and meticulously, unsparingly recorded. I, for one, understand well that “startled and offended”… so much so the hairs on the back of my neck stood up reading this…

it’s a painful realisation here, a painful reckoning, but I don’t feel much pity for the poem’s “you”. that “Grief is not outgrown” is something they should have realised long ago..

a rare treat, this poem. a highlight in an otherwise inspiration-free day. Thanks for sharing this.

Shannon


( Posted by: AuldMiseryGuts [Member] On: March 21, 2007 )

This is just really nicely done
Especially liked, "Grief, like a wounded lion
bleeding lavishly across some blond savannah."

Sweet, sad and deep. My favorites.

( Posted by: andyhavens [Member] On: September 22, 2007 )





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