Once on a bridge
I had met a hope,
a radiant maybe,
a glint of perhaps,
but I am so far
from that glint today
that when I stand
again on that bridge
I almost hate hope
with its stupid wings,
always promising
to carry us toward
something better.
I stand on that bridge
and stand on that bridge,
my inner perch
empty, silent.
I turn to face
the autumn wind.
It batters my bare skin.
I sing full-throat into the gale.
*This poem is in conversation with Emily Dickinson’s famous poem, “Hope is the thing with feathers …” which you can find here
Beautiful. Specifics to hope for may morph, elude – but we can sing out both grief and hope as embrace of whatever comes.
My hope is to honor my son’s influence (during his living years and these after years) – some days I need a battering blow in the face from Nature – leveling me into “now”.
that’s soooo it. The leveling into now. just right–that’s so what i mean. such gratitude for you, Jazz, as we sing out together
I can feel that empty place where hope once was, and love the full-throated singing into the gale of What Is.
So beautifully said–singing into the gale of What Is.
Hope is a capricious critter. Hope can carry you onward over the hump; Hope can leave you hanging empty. Its feathers take flight; they scatter in the wind. Hope is full; Hope is less.
THAT is a great poem.
Brilliant, Rosemerry! Ferocious and true….
Oh Joe, brother who sings, thank you–
In whatever guise hope arrives in, or even if not at all, it takes courage to sing into the gale. I admire and honour yours.
thank you, Kerry–singing on, we sing on
Love love love
Thank you, Chris
Oh yes, you are singing “full-throat into the gale” – with gratitude for reminding us that this is indeed possible. xoxox