When my lover left me in 2001 it was a process of an ever widening gyre, not unlike watching a child rebel on the way out the door, leaving home. I was not ready but how would I ever be ready? She had to go. I knew it then, know it now.I do not tell you how that all fit into the loss of my wife. Suffice it to say that what my first lover did for me was to bring me back into the world. She let me know that I was really here, really a man, and no slouch at that or at the love a man gives.
What was remarkable, when she left there was someone there for me. Leaving the old relationship behind, I was walking into a new relationship. It was not a rebound thing, not at all. These women were so different. In leaving my first lover I was leaving for that time poetry behind but not for nothing. What came was the return of my music, not only an intensification of the singing and keyboards that I was already doing, but my guitar practice was given back to me. She gave me back my guitar quite literally. It needed repair and that several hundred dollar restoration became a surprise birthday gift to me. My second lover was a strong woman and a musician herself. She actually became a choirmaster during our time together, running two choirs at once for a time. We established a territory of love that did not overlap with my earlier love at all.
Now that I am on my own, I have returned to the poetry, but the poetry that has come is not the poetry as it was. I have a voice now. My poetry is no longer words uttered through a role play, a character of some fantastic realm, more than half real through the alchemy of love. My poetry is now many voices from many eras of my own life and that of my imagination as well. I write from the Oort Cloud and beyond, from the civilized neighborhoods and the wild, close to the four footed people and the winged ones too. I write as a lover and a clown and just yesterday as a smack head. I write of the gremlins I have known, the lovers, and other mythological beasts, of God and angels and demons within and elsewhere. I do not write only to her expecting any reader to follow such a self indulgent path. Instead I write the truth, or at least true stories, and sometimes a spoof or two. I would not recommend taking me all that serious. I often am not serious. I would recommend not believing I always tell what has actually happened to me. I am a story teller.
Both of these women left me. This is okay with me now though I resisted both separations. I would prefer to have a lover though I am no longer really young enough to be the lover I was. I would prefer a companion but I know I am not really companion material. I am too singular. I sit in the evening here quite content to be solitary and undisturbed to do this work. Later this evening I would like to join my lover, but I know she would like more of me right now than I want to give. But I am all right. I have nothing to prove. I was a damn fine lover. They both said so, no question. They did not leave me because of me, at least not mainly. They both said that too.
How You Are Leaving Me
I hop, hop along
trying to get it, get it.
Man, what can I do
to convince you that
you've risen higher than this
yard we've known so long?
You've returned to nest
in the old haystack we called
good enough once more.
But I know you'll go,
again you will fly away
and one time soon, soon
you will not come back.
December 3, 2009 8:05 PM
"I would recommend not believing I always tell what has actually happened to me. I am a story teller." you cheeky devil!
ReplyDeleterobert and i were talking about the what if's yesterday, what if i died, what if he died. we both agreed, we've had enough of men, of women, and by that without being spoken we knew what the other meant, we had enough of men, of women who did not understand, who did not live beyond the means at hand. and so, when the other dies, that is it, there will be alone and good enough once more, rolls in the hay but a cloistering of spirit.
i sat on my front porch the other night in the rain imagining he had died. it was not for love's lamentful side but rather a test of life. what might life look like stripped down like that, without my man mirror beside me?
once i loved knowing there would be a time when he did not come back. this other he loved me the same. that did not stop either of us from loving. loss does not stop love.
yesterday robert admitted that he was living alone and fine before he met me, with no intentions. voila.
we only know today.
i imagine you on a rocking chair on a porch and a woman drawing close behind you. just because i imagine it doesn't make it less real. voila.
much love
xo
erin
A life well lived includes being left and leaving and time spent alone, pursuing life on our own, and sometimes learning in places like this, how much this is true for others too. Thank you for the wonderful post.
ReplyDeleteErin, I really, really love you, my most loyal Canadian friend. God I hope you have a lovely life.
ReplyDeleteAnthony, yes indeed. It is what I am getting and did not have for a very long time, basically never before, is time alone in a solitary house. It is more than okay. I lean into it quite far. Because I hope for a partner, I also hope not too far.
He went by day after day
ReplyDeleteLiving life and loving that way
He went by day after day
Until the day
He didn’t go by
No living No life No loving that way
Where is he now
Why didn’t he stay instead of go
You ask this
At least you think you do
It was not he who left
Instead it was you
He still goes by day after day
Wishing you could have stayed
He, I think this works too. You are pretty good for one who thought so little of poetry til now.
ReplyDeleteIf it was me, some parts would change a little. I want to tighten up a little. But that's my style, not yours necessarily.
The poem packs a punch for me but I may be too close to know how it touches a stranger to read it.
i feel that with which you say this and i am grateful. that is so much more than any outcome:)
ReplyDeletemuch love, christopher
xo
erin