The wind is beaded with rain
Like the flutter of a handkerchief against the face
Bringing to you the lover’s pain.
You love it
For you love the lover’s pain
Some moist gray face from dim distant time
Swims into memory like an obsolescent refrain
And you get wet, and yourself an aching substance.
5 comments:
dear sir
thank you for the poem. I hope theme of this poem will touch the people who have the experience of being refused....
tormentation,suffering,etc.are the companion of true lover.though he knows that his love is unrequited one,he doesn't bother about it.he loves pain..he adores to swim into memory and becomes nostalgic.though it only increases his sufferings,he wants to lead his life singing the song of love which is of no use.that is the philosophy of his life..............................
Where's the refusal, anyway? I don't see an iota of it here. Poetry doesn't mean but IS,as Archibald McLeish says in 'Ars Poetica'. It's concerned with being, with being born an entity.While conceiving the poem, I was fascinated by the images crumbling away in my mind. I was least bothered about whether it was going to be a consolation or a condemnation to dumped-up heart wrecks. Should anyone need consolation, s/he would profitably go to straight-faced subjects like philosophy,religion etc or agony aunts. Read the lachrymose "In My Craft or Sullen Art," and see how a pathetic Dylan Thomas sheds copious tears. I'd have none of it, his namby-pamby, niminy-piminy, whining stufff for all the world for God's sake! For me poetry is a craft unaffected by its subject and indifferent to its theme. Maybe it's pure delight, and I'm supremely happy. Thanks for provoking me.
One of the finest lyrics i've ever read. But, a problem here is that you should leave the meaning of your poems to be determined by the readers. If you explain them, you spoil their charms. Let the readers read them on the basis of their respective understanding and taste. Best of luck.
To me it's a self-addressed poem trying to throw into sharp relief by articulation a deep obscure feeling that attends what Marcel Proust calls in Le Temps retrouvé the sudden invasion of unconscious memory followed by dejavu. When you sort things out for yourself, continual clarification and monologue between the split self is the sincere and usual thing. It seems the poem is caught up in this process.
Cheers!
Post a Comment