The Wound

 

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The day comes you learn

what will take you by death.

Not by what kills the body, but

something other, by way of

a sacred wound

that will never heal.

It will be yours alone

first sensed through love, the

one you can’t forget, the

one for the ages.

The wound is furthered

by holding desire

that will never leave you or

having desire fulfilled ever so

briefly

and then not.

All in all

it is sacred,

the portal through which

you pass on

into the grace of humility.

Suffer this wound

until your last breath.

Speak little of it because, for most,

it is beyond a confident grasping.

In plain living,

the wound, as real as earth,

is borne

to tear your heart open

to the sky,

to let your spirit be it’s

winged avatar, and though

beyond bearing

will be your bearing home.

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4 thoughts on “The Wound

  1. You should know that I am so often moved/blown away/…(fill in the adjective that means the earth shifts a bit when you read) by your poems. I comment infrequently because how many different ways can you say that before it loses it’s meaning? The line in this one “Speak little of it because, for most, it is beyond a confident grasping,” describes why. When something touches you so deeply, it’s hard to convey adequately, so feeling but speaking little may be best. But I think it would be unfair not to tell you this, at least once!

    I stumbled onto your words (and subscribed to your blog quite a while ago) via John Blase, whose words have a similar effect. I also stumbled onto Jim Harrison via John and the both of you remind me of him, but the two of you hit my heart even more bulls-eye than Harrison. Harrison is a master of words, but the subjects/objects of your poem are more moving to “my particular heart.” (John Blase). You both weave faith – the challenges – into your writing more frequently than Harrison, so perhaps that’s part of it. I’m not blowing smoke.

    I’m told John, so I’ll tell you, that when I read your poems, the words that most adequately describes the emotions they bring are “suadade” (Portguese) or “sehnsucht,”(German) – both foreign words that you probably already know. My favorite translation of suadade is “a pleasure you suffer, an ailment you enjoy.” But another translation I’ve read is, “the love that remains after someone is gone.” This description fits this particular poem. Sehnsucht – “longing, pining, yearning, or craving, but in a wider sense a type of “intensely missing”. However, Sehnsucht is difficult to translate adequately and describes a deep emotional state.

    I tell you all this to say that, in the future, I may short-hand a comment with either of these two singular words – because they convey far better than I possibly could, the layers and depth.

    Your words are a gift to the world. This also sounds trite and cheesy, (you see my conundrum), but it is true I look forward to your book.

    • It warms my heart to know that this work is meaningful to you. Thank you for sharing your thoughts and I hope we can continue to resonate as we do. Pablo Neruda said, “Poetry arrived in search of me.” I’m learning that it has a life all it’s own and I’m just a steward of it.

      My life is seeped in saudade. I’m reckoning with it. Believe me, I understand.

      Thanks again, and thank you for “looking forward” to the book. It will be here soon enough.

      Your words here and other comments you have made previously are cherished. Thank you.

      Sincerely,

      James

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