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Love, Vanquished

“Why don’t you write a joyful poem?”

S’il vous plait,” she says to me,

“Poetry”- a subject about which we have spoken comparatively little,

“Is Mournful by nature.”

I am struck, as if by lightning,

Not by her seeming revelation

About the nature of the artform in question,

But by the formality of her please.

She is one of those dying breed of people –

The ones who understand with brutal intimacy

The difference between te and vous,

The ones who use language like the fine edge of a blade,

Ruthless, remorseless, ravenous,

Knowing just where to wound –

How to throw salt upon one’s soul

So it will strike those pulsing, jagged wounds,

How to wield a fire, wild to the last,

And tame it.

I am silent,

And she switches back to English,

But I cannot speak,

Not in one language, nor in two.

Poetry,

I’ve found,

Is, indeed, mournful by nature,

Not unlike the art of Love.




This post first appeared on Caitlin Cacciatore, please read the originial post: here

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Love, Vanquished

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