This comes across as an excruciatingly honest piece, a kind of requiem for the idea of heroism, bitter but also, in my opinion, a bit purblind ("Do the same in the United States
only to find the monotonous repetition of retail parks.")
Fair point but sometimes what’s called purblind is just refusing to romanticize decay. That line wasn’t about retail parks, it was about the death of distinction. The weariness is intentional - or maybe just real.
I can tell the "weariness" is real, not only real but frightening as hell. That's what makes this such a compelling piece. Lamenting the past, real or imagined, is, of course, a major theme, not just for poets but for humans in general. This is a good specimen of the genre, in my opinion, with its deft blending of the personal and the political.
Having walked a spookily parallel path, this struck a nerve. I went through a cancer scare once—prostate—fast-growing, they thought. I was terrified. My estranged wife showed up, but mostly for show, and I could feel it. That emotional dissonance—presence without presence—echoed through so much of what you wrote. Masterful delivery.
After everything is said and done, all we are left with are memories and tape recorders of the mind, where we incessantly play back all the in-between moments that lead to an ending—like the death of a marriage. What jumped out for me in this poem is that, yes, relationships usually disintegrate over time; they go sour, but there will always be signs that they're going bad. While we are in the thick of it, we are blinded though. We cannot see.
The writer takes a strange vantage on the inner lover he cohabits with when I and Thou are splitting back in two. The divorce happens betwen them - for some duration -- as between the outer marrieds. Where is the heart, the heat, the clarity in these figures? 'Tis like ... well, you said it. How I remember.
Oh man, I feel your quiet acceptance, resignation. It's bittersweet. And there's hope too for yourself and what might possibly be next, yet shrouded too with the cloud of health concerns...
I like how you write confessional poetry that does not give one the ick. Coherent and feels real.
This is my favourite...
There is, perhaps, a quiet devastation
in everything we have ever done.
For me, it feels like, you've done your best, but it still enough. For me that is devastating. To not be able to compensate in any way. And you can't.
It still not enough
This comes across as an excruciatingly honest piece, a kind of requiem for the idea of heroism, bitter but also, in my opinion, a bit purblind ("Do the same in the United States
only to find the monotonous repetition of retail parks.")
Fair point but sometimes what’s called purblind is just refusing to romanticize decay. That line wasn’t about retail parks, it was about the death of distinction. The weariness is intentional - or maybe just real.
I can tell the "weariness" is real, not only real but frightening as hell. That's what makes this such a compelling piece. Lamenting the past, real or imagined, is, of course, a major theme, not just for poets but for humans in general. This is a good specimen of the genre, in my opinion, with its deft blending of the personal and the political.
Thank you. This more than lived up to my high expectations. There is so much to unpack in there, and I'm looking forward to re-reading it.
My goal was to articulate marriage breakdown, physical fear (the lump), alienation from nationalism, nostalgia for Europe and the past.
The conflict between private devastation and public celebration, and the detachment from the latter.
Having walked a spookily parallel path, this struck a nerve. I went through a cancer scare once—prostate—fast-growing, they thought. I was terrified. My estranged wife showed up, but mostly for show, and I could feel it. That emotional dissonance—presence without presence—echoed through so much of what you wrote. Masterful delivery.
Emotional dissonance. Presence without presence. Echooing further. Thank you for your words.
Stole my breath.
Very fine...🙏👍
🙏
Beautifully written.
Thank you, what resonated or stood out for you?
After everything is said and done, all we are left with are memories and tape recorders of the mind, where we incessantly play back all the in-between moments that lead to an ending—like the death of a marriage. What jumped out for me in this poem is that, yes, relationships usually disintegrate over time; they go sour, but there will always be signs that they're going bad. While we are in the thick of it, we are blinded though. We cannot see.
Beautifully put.
The writer takes a strange vantage on the inner lover he cohabits with when I and Thou are splitting back in two. The divorce happens betwen them - for some duration -- as between the outer marrieds. Where is the heart, the heat, the clarity in these figures? 'Tis like ... well, you said it. How I remember.
Oh man, I feel your quiet acceptance, resignation. It's bittersweet. And there's hope too for yourself and what might possibly be next, yet shrouded too with the cloud of health concerns...