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.
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.
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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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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.
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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.