Carry on, the woman bolstered me.
I thought of all the things I try to carry—
thanked her. Then surprised, I disagreed.
Why carry troubles, haul a life’s debris
as if I were a barge, a human ferry?
Carry on, the woman bolstered me.
I took her words as blessing, certainly—
a benediction, kind and customary,
but thinking more about it, disagreed.
I felt the lifelong weight of all I cleave to—
convictions, hopes, and moods both blithe and scary
Carry on, the woman bolstered me.
Imagine if I dropped the weight, was freed
from the heroic self that makes me weary.
Her words were kind, but should I disagree?
Part of me clings to that belief—
that I must carry on, though spent, though teary.
Carry on, the woman bolstered me.
But must I? Part of me does not agree.
*
Hi friends, for kicks, this poem is written in an old French form, the villanelle. You can read all about its history and how to write one here.
I always like the lines in “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear:”
And ye, beneath life’s crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow,
Look now! for glad and golden hours
come swiftly on the wing.
O rest beside the weary road,
And hear the angels sing!
No more carry on for me!
Polite dissent is a tricky tightrope.