The Empty House (I)
I sat by the dark river
of letting go,
until I have forgotten of sound and sunlight,
and of love.
I sat there,
until you came like a noonday sun,
and pulled me behind you,
looking back, but not letting go.
For it is you,
my Eurydice,
who pulled me to life,
to sound and fury.
I built you a house,
you called it beautiful,
and my act lovely.
You will not spend the night.
I look outside the window,
and see you in the fields,
gifting your smiles to the crops,
as they turn to drink your light.
Your light,
when you turn this way,
paints the walls golden,
mends my soul whole.
I look outside the door,
and see you in the forest,
leaving fingerprints of gold,
on the wild things, that let you near.
Your laughter,
when you come and visit,
calls me forth to action,
and tells me change is possible.
I look at you,
my Demeter,
too busy giving life,
to dwell within.
I turn within,
to the dark shadows,
of this temple,
bereft of purpose.
I open the door to the cellar.
I step down the long staircase,
and sit again by the dark river,
my old friend.
Until you come again.
This is The Empty House part 1, written before but posted after the second part. Thanks to @whoshim, @jrhughes, and @carolkean who provided feedback on this piece.
This piece draws upon and continues Acceptance, a piece published on January 29th. I recommend giving that a look as well, for unpacking imagery related to that used here, especially of The Dark River. It also relates to some of the same themes.
Check out my latest posts:
- The Empty House (II) - Poem and poetic rule unlearning.
- The Retired Prophet - A poem.
- K-On! Like Lying in the Sun on a Warm Afternoon
Art and flair courtesy of @PegasusPhysics
Image is a promotional image of Morpheus, the titular character from Neil Gaiman's The Sandman. All rights owned by the respective owners, image is used under fair use.
© Guy Shalev 2018.
I sat there,
until you came like a noonday sun,
and pulled me behind you,
The speaker seems to hold still, to hide in a dark place, rather than venture out into the sun and wind and expose himself to the elements. Remaining inside, looking out, how does he grow, and what does he have to offer she who leaves fingerprints of gold (love that line!), whose laughter, when she comes to visit, pulls him to action? What does he have to bestow on her - depth, richness, wisdom, tranquility? Or does he absorb her light and exude none in return? Just asking... because this speaker reminds me of someone I met in college, at age 21. He was needy. He'd have drained me, if I'd let him. Your poem is beautiful, and memorable, and please don't imagine that I am confusing you with a dark and brooding young man who lurked so many years ago in my life. Your words are moving, and poignant. I just keeping thinking about the bright, laughing lady in the meadow, with her fingerprints of gold.
You know Carol, that's a really good question.
Before I answer it, I want to say something. It could be seen as flippant, or as a deflection, but it isn't. Poetry is literature, and you certainly know that what we take out of literature depends on what we put in. Literature doesn't exist on the page, but in the place where text and reader meet.
As such, I will say that what you read in the text may not be "there", from my perspective. But since this is literature, that is just fine. The piece spoke to you, and it may speak in a different tone than the one I intended.
But it may also be that I put something there, and just didn't consider it.
Now, to the answer.
From the poetic side, it'd be quite a different piece, with very different themes, if it rested on what the writer brings to the table, to her. It wouldn't really be a piece of longing. And it'd quite likely be a longer piece. But regardless, it'd be a different piece. Not better, or worse. But different.
From the prosaic side, who speaks of what they have done for others? Politicians, and people crying over how they are not properly appreciated. This is not how you convince people. You are not the person to say what you can give another, because who's to say they ever asked for what you are giving? That side is left for her to give, to say what the poet is giving her. Any attempt from him to do so is folly.
**Rhetorical question, Guy!
I didn't expect you to answer it. Just, your poem led me to wonder. You're right, the poem is not the poet. The poem stands alone. We bring to the table suitcases packed with our ideas, memories, baggage. So I had to wonder: he yearns for her to return to him, bestowing her sunny smiles.... and what's in it for her? :)
I remember this river, we've sat here before and it feels good to be back.
Again, this is, whew, to say vulnerable? It's almost, the following by the hand and the joy in observation, a translucent cloth over a patient heart and a patient mind and the virtue of patience.
Yes, the river is going nowhere, the house is built and is, the crops cycle and cycle back; yes, patience is here.
But, so to the healing. For me as the reader, it's almost difficult to see the narrator viewing the Goddess and not see an eye for one who is giving all of herself to others, to the world, to warmth and light and creative energy, and, while that's amazing to be around, it must also be taxing.
So many mixed emotions, so beautifully told - your imagery is so poignant here, like seeing a photo with high contrast and tint.
Of course, you're never one to use words without purpose, but, even so, a couple stanzas in here that were monumental:
and
Styx in your basement, and you tell me that I dwell too often next to the realm of the dead =-)p
Loved this piece, Guy, so glad it's getting more comments than many of your poems I usually feel this way about. <3
It feels good to be back? Man, if ever there was a place I think this comment is inappropriate :P
Patience, but also going to where life does not flow. To where one casts the hurt away.
And yes, the Goddess is a goddess. Hers is life to give, at least while her daughter is present. Hers is life, and death. And responsibility, and being looked to, can be hard.
Also, it is not about dwelling with death, but being in love with it. Death, like life, just is. It is us who fall in love with things. And with goddesses.
And thank you kindly, Alain. You know, as someone who is on the receiving end of my comments, that it's not the count, but the quality. The quality of comments such as yours <3
Sweet and lovely, Guy. You trust in the profundity of simplicity. This:
Your laughter,
when you come and visit,
calls me forth to action,
and tells me change is possible.
May the light of love visit you often and long, poet _/|_
Thank you kindly, Yahia.
It's why I write, in part. Because otherwise I'll have to write long and hard to say what I mean to say, to this recipient. And yet, even after I do so, some things do not come across. And yet, with all of its poetic licenses, poetry can convey what I wish to better, without having me left mute, for the unwillingness or inability to say some things.
May the light of love shine brightly over us all, and over this world.
Dunno why heart turned black. Here's a brighter note, and echo of your fine piece above (as I understand it), @geekorner:
-Leonard Cohen
♥️
There is no colour in these emojis here, gotta paste an image.
And that's a great quote, thank you :)
Hmm... you're right, heart's red on iphone and black on laptop...
Thanks, for ongoing tech support - using what you taught me, and pleased with it
_/|\_Yes, good 'ole Lenny Cohen...
Beautiful, Guy. A somber nod to unrequited love.
Thank you, but allow me to copy-paste something I said below:
I suppose if it gives you the hope to go on then you have received a gift of another kind.
All love is a gift received, especially when given to others.
such an awesome piece. am touched with these words 'For it is you,
my Eurydice,
who pulled me to life,
to sound and fury.'
you became my judge and jury
to determine my fate but faith aint straight. wish I could continue....
bro keep the good work up, poetry is living and we bless to have a poet like you in it.
Ha! That was amusing. Glad you liked it :)
You'll notice that I don't go for rhymes all that often. They are a crutch that helps guide you, but it also limits you.
You sure do know how to say a lot with little;
That last line says a lot about the relationship between the persona and this person he so dearly loves and worships.
Loved it. Keep it coming
Zingers don't have to be floating lines. They don't have to be entire stanzas. Sometimes it's all about the light juxtaposition. This stanza is one of the hearts of the poem. Yes, you could technically cut what follows it because it's variations on it, but I feel they add different hues. But this is the heart beating at least one of the main emotions of the poem.
Glad you liked it. I hope to keep the poetry coming, even if not this emotion, hopefully.
What a beautiful piece and what a wonderful poet you are. You are descriptive without being fussy it all lows exceptionally well .
these lines were my favorite :
I look outside the door,
and see you in the forest,
leaving fingerprints of gold,
on the wild things, that let you near.
Close second the part about the house she likes but will not live in. you made my morning I truly enjoyed this.
Thank you kindly! I gotta say, I mentioned this before, but it's fun seeing how each person has different bits and pieces of a poem speak to them most. The poem is as much within the mind of the readers as it is on the page, if not more so.
And thank you for the praise on not being fussy. I tend to be a bit more fussy in my non-fiction/poetry writing, and I try to keep it outside of my poetry :)
:)
It is truly a beauty and a classic poem.
It feels so real!
Ha! Just yesterday I commented on the word "pulchritude" in someone else's poem. Thank you for the kind words as well :)
And it is real, emotionally, at least.
Oh man! This is like waves of sweetness and raw emotion. This is simple vulnerability :)
Is vulnerability ever simple? Is it ever not? Thank you for dropping by :3
Oh this! That feeling when you thought you're lonely & alone then someone came. Unfortunately, it boiled down to unrequited love. I could just remember what that feels like. Simple & Classic. You had me with your piece! 😊 @geekorner
Thank you! But is it unrequited love, if it pulls you out of the underworld itself? Love overflowing with life, so much, that it leaves the speaker alone.
Somehow for me it is when I put myself on that person's shoes. On the brighter side, Life is full of love indeed. Anyone can find love on other things, not just on someone's love you hope would be felt for you. Perhaps, on a different level though. 😊
Excelente, excelente
Tu risa,
cuando vienes a visitarme,
me llama a la acción
y me dice que el cambio es posible.
Aquí usted obtuvo la gloria.
Saludos y Gracias
Muchas gracias.
Es toda su gloria <3
You pulled me in with the picture of Dream. Your poem made it well worth while. Thank you!
Thank you!
I know the poem is more about Orpheus and than Morpheus, but, well, Dream sure is a tragic figure. Dramatically so. He just cut a more striking figure and I've already used up most of my relevant renaissance era pictures relating to Orpheus and Persephone :D
Though it certainly fits Morpheus's nature, and I could see his stint with the fairy he invited in before he sent her as well, which was relevant to his end in The Kindly Ones later on, how he looks on their liveliness from his gloomy castle.