In an effort to make myself write more poetry (and blog posts in general), here is a poem inspired in some sense by Kristin Fogdall's "Demas, In Love With This Present World". I've always loved the imagery and thematic content of that poem; the delicacy of the imagery, the moving away from the eternal towards the fading present inspired by love. I've also always wanted to be able to have that sort of eternal love; considering that what I have, instead, is a bunch of failed romances, this poem is about what happens after, when love turns absent. I hope it works both with the original poem, and as its own piece.
Also, shoutout to the roommate Jonathan Garcia for the title "Bloem"; this series is now semi-dedicated to you, if only because the first ever post in it will always bear your name. #internet Thanks to Raimy as well for comments on the poem!
I'm sorry I never wrote that letter
I still believe this present world is passing away,
but now it is impossible to rejoice with you.
(from “Demas, In Love With This Present World” by Kristin Fogdall)
sitting at the boardwalk, the waves
gently crash into forming thoughts;
trying to write poetry, i think
all love’s a marshland, even as
the breakwaters stand resolute,
faithful, still, to the tempers
of the sea; couples idle by,
and if each step brings them
deeper into swamps, they show no sign.
i have not written back to you;
only a hasty postcard, and i
still think of you, though
you may not. love’s still
a torrential rain, though i know not
what i still know of love;
the past still snakes around
the present, and perhaps
i cannot give myself
till i find a way back -
back into what is living,
what the water still brings.
maybe the world is already dead.
maybe judgement has already been passed,
and we are merely waiting for the inevitable.
the winters, after all, grow colder;
the summers, harsher, blinding
and we do not know what the future brings.
know that love spoke,
no matter the distance
and i, unsure, shivered a little
inside. in fall, the light painted
the sky in flames; reminiscent
of the falling leaves, slow-burn
of the season, exhaust of time.
i wanted to give you the boardwalk;
the lamps, hazy, picture-perfect,
but i could never give you
the sights: the soft light
of night, people milling around,
falling in and out of step, of love,
or my thoughts,
the soft ache in bunched up shoulders -
the startling mundanity of it all,
i could not share with you.
perhaps my recompense
is this loneliness on cold nights.
i wish you well.