Sunday, February 18, 2007

First Love

Those missing sounds and noises,
That used to fill this house,
Graceful footsteps, glittering laugh,
Lightly sung lyrics as you wend your way,
Only noticing empty noises,
I hear them no more.

Those scents and smells that spoke of you,
And drifted round this house,
Flowers and perfume and fresh clean clothes,
Lingered for a while but now are gone,
Only dusty musty scents remain,
I smell you no more.

Those things that brightened spirits,
And gave this house your touch,
Trinkets and baubles, your clothes and furniture,
Records and books, your letters,
All gone, gone, gone.
I see these things no more.

But in others voices,
I still hear your scream,
In every breath, in every motion,
With every knife plunge, every slice and stab,
I don’t mean to compare them,
But none mean as much as you, my first love.

11 comments:

Molly Bloom said...

Oh goodness. I hope that doesn't mean that you want to stab the bolus. Eeek.

Brilliant turn from softness to the macabre. You do it so well.

Inconsequential said...

Pure fiction my dear :)
The proof being, you are still alive :)


I can't seem to kick my dark side, I start off with a 'nice' idea, and very soon some one dies...

Oh well, it's fun to write.

etain_lavena said...

Those scents and smells that spoke of you...this is perfectly said, a line I want to linger in.
Gosh...In...sometimes I wonder how you come up with some of these.....I love it!

etain_lavena said...

PS everybody dies someday...you just dress it up nice!

Inconsequential said...

Thank you Etain, I too wonder where most of the lines come from, some I supected are song lyrics that lodge in the subconscious, and kinda dribble out a bit twisted...

Pod said...

i love your twists...i thought you were talking about her too!

Penelope said...

...This one hit me like, really, really hard. But isn't that really what life is like, though. Things are swimming along, beautiful, and then bam. It's suddenly shocking and macabre.

tania said...

somehow it reminds me of this novel i'm reading about a bunch of poets, in my eternal quest to "get" poetry :)
one the poets from Mean Boy says this about his love poems:

"...maybe you'll read a poem i've written about it. maybe you'll recognize yourself in there. i want to evoke my feelings, my ragged faith, my desolation, and my subsequent salvation so completely, so perfectly, that for you there will be no mistaking what we have in common. at least-that's part of what i'm trying to do. and sometimes, when i'm doing this...i have to be explicit. because i know that my experience is human, and the more palpable i can make it, through the writing, the more you will know, as a reader, that i am telling you a kind of truth."

giggles said...

Chilling and wonderful. I took the stabs to be a metaphor. Love this poem!

Peace giggles

Inconsequential said...

Giggles - :) it wasn't meant to be a metaphor, but if you want it that way...

BlueWolfess said...

oddly raw like a reopened wound