Not every poem I write
is about you
just the ones that
when I read them out loud
stretch breath tight like a bowstring
that fires an arrow at a fleeing target
and falls short
so I have to swallow down feeling
hard, slide across that snapped string
no longer a weapon but an instrument
the harp I play in broken accompaniment
to what is sung past tightness,
the point where words stick
and this poet stammers
you, you slide between the lines
not spoken, but impossibly there–
you are the inconvenient lump
in my throat.
Oh that is some last line – packing one hard lump of a punch
Stephen, thank you.
Hehehe. Great poem. Quite the slam dunk.
Aw–now I have to write you a poem 😉
no no no.
🙂 you are due one–your work is an inspiration
🙂 thanks, Sis!
the clear, almost indescribable tension brought to life. beautiful and poignant.
Thank you, Jane. Yes… Sometimes even we stammer.
You had me at hello, or in this case, the title/ first two lines. 🙂
Awesome–thank you 😉
No, Thank you!
Thanks for the feeling you conveyed. Twang, You hit the mark. Alice
Thank you, Alice… It is a nice feeling–I like knowing someone who can make this old wordsmith stammer…
So in my world, this is what I would call classic Susan. Effortless, witty, poignant, and polished in but a few choice words. Classic.
Oh, thanks, Trent. One of those “aw, shucks” moments you just gave me. Just happened to notice the middle of this has a rhyming structure–wonder where that came from–rhyming makes me break out, and it was not intentional. Ah, I shall just let it be as is. Had fun with this one. I do so enjoy when someone has the ability to make me stammer.
You can’t stop the signal, Susan. Even the universe rhymes.
Trent, your comments keep inspiring me. Not complaining. I just think it’s funny, that I will struggle for a rhyme, and then blather on in free verse and have them spontaneously appear, where I am not expecting them. They are imps, I tell you–imps.
I think it’s kind of funny that your use of language naturally leads to places that the rest of us have to push for. If they be imps, they be pretty ones.
Hmmm. Am I using language, or is language using me? Sometimes I am not sure how it works. Either way, the imps and I are enjoying each other’s company!
That is an age-old question for which I have exactly zero answers. Let’s just enjoy the ride, shall we.
This was an amazing poem!
Gabbie, thank you so much! So glad it said something to you.
Susan.. you are so masterful with your complexities and movement. I loved every tautly wound word and you left me with a lump in my throat. Gosh– so well done
Oh, thanks so much, Audra. I am enjoying these love poems that aren’t love poetry (but really are), that are coming to my mind–and now this one where the beloved is an inconvenience…glad you are having fun along with me.
Aw ~ Susan ~ ‘… impossibly there / you are the inconvenient lump / in my throat.’ ~ fab ~ what great lines
Thank you Polly! By the way, am totally enjoying your poetry…
“you are the inconvenient lump
in my throat” <–I could have used this in my divorce decree. just saying. best damn line I've read all day.
Oh my gosh, Stacy–thank you.
Oh, thank you, Rambles…
Say, what the heck is your name, I hate calling you Rambles–well, it’s cute, but I am a personal kind of chick…
Jenny – Jen 🙂
Thank you, Jen 😉
🙂 You’re welcome – can I call you Sus Suse? or do your prefer Susan?
You can call me anything except any variation of Suzy–barring that, it’s all good.
Everyone on here is wrong – this is rubbish!
ROFL. That means I LOVE you now, because I adore critics. Tell me where it’s bad, and make my day…oh wait, you said the whole thing was… 😉
Thanks, Julie. Too much of a punch?
No – it is a perfect punch!
Aw, thank you, Julie 😉
Ooh, so well done… I can feel the snap of the string right back into teeth. 😉
Oh, yes–you got this…
and thanking you…
Wow wow … just toooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo good !!!
Oh, gosh–thank you!!
So very clever this, Susan. I read it with bitter smiles. Very taut. Prone to snapping. Plucking out an angry code. But the tune itself rises so high above the anger. There is freedom just in the composition, isn’t there? There are voices that haunt us now and probably always will. Voices we’d rather not hear again. Insinuating themselves between the lines. But still, WE compose the lines. And there is freedom in that. As for the rest? Couldn’t give a monkey’s.
LOL, George–exactly. I am glad the monkey gets to keep his butt. This was liberating and part of what I am now calling a group of non-love poetry (where that stubborn feeling keeps popping up, much to the poet’s chagrin). You so got this.
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Cough that lump out, Susan. Very powerful 🙂
Will do, C. Sometimes I like that lump in my throat–very much. It just can’t take over.