dear grief – 18

dear grief,
I’m allowed to grieve however I like.

I, for example grieve the living all the time.
I grieved my father before he died,
I grieved with anger,
until he died,
then I grieved with silence,
then I grieved with entitlement,
then I grieved with poetry,
and now,
I grieve whichever way I like.

Even a kilo of fat I gain makes me grieve,
or a white hair I lose.

I grieved one day,
whilst he was still alive,
that he wouldn’t leave me grief in his will,
never in the world did I know he owned so much grief,
and whilst my family gets a proportion,
I’ve inherited most of it,
the mad of it,
the stricken of it.

I grieve unborn children that lay in my loins,
I grieve fertile wombs laid to rest,
worse, the ones that give up and grieve alone.

I grieve for a plant I didn’t tend to,
a palm I could not fill with a expiation of my sin.

Grief, has always been in my belly,
it took death to keep it on my tongue.

W.E.

dear grief – 17


You’re the pair of jeans,
with a hole through my knees,
always comfortable,
never outgrowable
no matter what’s lurking beneath.

You’re the gnash of my teeth,
the weight in my feet,
the scar tissue,
dragging and chewable,
inflamed and raw cheek.

What ever do you seek,
preying on the weak,
crumbling hearts,
of people already apart,
left humbled, rubbled and meek

W.E.

dear grief – 15

 

Bring a man to his knees why don’t you,
until his savage is all timid,
and his temperament livid,
and he can’t fight you with his vulnerability,
or console you with bloodied fists.

One way or the other,
you’re going to smother,
with your blatant honesty,
and impartiality,
try as I may,
to perch, or even impale,
my grief, is better suited to flight.

W.E.

dear grief – 14

 

It’s meant to be a release,
but it singes either way.

The ney,
wails reluctantly,
sorrow ensues,
by the breath of the entertainer.

He assumes he fashioned you this grief,
and gives no credit to the flute maker,
who crafted the scale and haunt,
out of nothing more than bamboo and a file,
and assumption of engulfing the mourner with embrace.

Little do both care,
the ney can only cry so much,
before it’s reed is discarded,
and it’s body turned to mulch.

W.E.

dear grief – 13


What riches do I have,
that I can give,
that can expiate me,
or expiate him,
that aren’t from God to begin with.

What a fool I am,
assuming I can bribe my way,
out of grief,
out of guilt.

Or am I being held to ransom,
by my self,
of myself,
only to come to comprehension,
too late,
with too little left to give.

W.E.

dear grief – 12


I miss him.
I want to be five again,
ten, thirteen, twenty two.
To relive a moment when he knocks the door,
and we knew it was him.

To not even let the door knock,
just to hear the jingle of his pockets,
keys, coins, bags of shopping in his hands,
not even,
just the rumble of his car in the driveway,
and meet him at the door once more.

We had to love him silently,
that’s how he loved us.

Head down, heart up,
eyes averted,
mind occupied, with the future of his family.
Do they have enough, do they have what they want,
am I enough, maybe I can carve another piece out of myself,
maybe I can give away a bit more of my health for them.

The things that race through a unselfish man’s mind,
double, triple shifts,
and still,
he came home every morning, every afternoon,
smelling of cedar, leather and muskiness of sweat with a hint of lemon zest.

In 38 years, I never once smelt body odour on him,
a testament of what was inside him,
if ever I saw evidence of a man’s insides.

W.E.

dear grief – 11

Reluctance,
is a spoon of regret,
mixed with the broth of fear,
and a dash of ego.

The medicine,
bitter as it may be,
has a limited time,
an appropriate window.

Late,
is not better than never,
it’s a lie to comfort you,
that you took way too long,
to overcome your self.

And now,
you have no one to grieve,
but your lowly self.

W.E.

dear grief – 9

dear grief – 9

You don’t sound like a cello,
stringing it’s sorrow,
more like a ney,
I have no idea how to blow,
soothing to play,
for those who know,
but for me,
simply a cylindrical hollow.

Am I shallow?
Perhaps indifferent,
Melancholic mellow,
Or a blackened and charred,
Fume from bellow,
blacksmith of loss,
Hardened and rigid,
Smog filled swallow.

W.E.

Music by Kudsi Erguner