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|Our two anonymous Valentines are poems written by former contributors to The Fairfield Review. --egh|
There is so much to say and
no words with which to
I listen to the radio,
sure there is a song whose lyrics I can steal.
But the music never uncovers all the feeling,
though the rhythms sometimes come
I read the works of others,
longing for a poem, a sonnet,
a window or clue.
Searching the great names, I find that
no one has combined the right
nouns and verbs and adjectives
I dig deeply into the dictionary and thesaurus and find only
descriptions for the void:
the deep, throbbing of a heart that pulls on the
fiercely tangled stomach and the
taut, strained lungs.
Where are the
I remain mute
my soul becomes raw in its
no phrases to suture it,
no incantations to soothe it,
no stories to numb it.
if only I knew the language
of all the feeling
out of my body
Please read the companion piece, Love Poem, in this issue
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Document last modified on: 08/20/1998