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In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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3 Comments


  1. A HUNGRY HEART

    And I have only my hungry heart, my/ wobbly heart: I cart it everywhere I go.

    1.
    It is when things are exactly
    where they ought to be, that
    you begin to wonder where
    you might have lost yourself
    or found yourself needing
    all these quicksilver thoughts
    of longing, of desire pulsing
    through your hungry heart,
    your wobbly heart, and you
    wander among the debris
    of past lives, old loves, fallen
    dreams in crumbled houses,
    carting your throbbing heart
    through every dark chasm
    posted with forbidding signs:
    “no hearts accepted here”,
    and bravely you walk away,
    still carting your defiant heart
    through uncharted streets of
    lost loves and wanton desire.

    2.
    Now, you find yourself lulled
    in a spring garden as a flower
    stripped of its honey colours,
    a mere tendril, a bud worn
    as some valediction, and still
    you dream and chase the
    will-o’-the-wisp, and cart your
    heart, your wobbly heart,
    to parts unknown where signs
    forbid the chastened lover.

    —Albert B. Casuga
    04-26-11

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  2. Back to read this for the fourth time. It’s such a distressing poem. I want to hammer on it and talk back.

    & at the same time it’s so cool and poised and almost matter-of-fact, that there’s no arguing with it. But I would, if I could.

    Reply

    1. A fourth read is complimentary, indeed. Distress, as in reacting to an old grandmother counsel one against falling in love more often than being coy. Thanks for the good read, Dale.

      Reply

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