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This poem is in a form called the ghazal.
Ghazal: Stone Rachel Rosenberg The waves smooth down the shell and the stone. The shell crumbles. The stone remains stone. You think your vision is clouded? Close your eyes and see like a stone. Climb the mountain, but sit at the summit; invite inside the craggy peace of stone. We all lose something in the fall; rain must shatter. Gravity may choose to be kinder to stone. In the end, water always wins. Given time, it will crack the most solid stone. Lover, thanks for letting me know. And it's fine; your visit was not set in stone. Please don't assume I'm angry when my face is slack like stone. The basics remain the most effective instruments. No weapon fits in the palm as neatly as a stone. Does the hermit crab ever wish he could stop all this shell business and live in a house of stone? The world will always remember the day you cast the first stone. What shooting first and paying second gets you; a prison of flash-frozen stone. How extensive are these catacombs? The deepest heart of the earth is not made of stone. Trolls rejoice and roast their prey by moonlight. Sunshine turns them instantly to stone. History is written by the winners; the past is not set in stone. Trees must bend to survive the storm. For a short time, the storm bows to the stone.
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So I also have a tumblr now too.
And a poem for your troubles, gov'ner; Ghazal: ache. [a Ghazal is a form poem, you can read about what makes them tick here, on wikipedia.] Something inside me aches. What makes me ache? Shhh, we'll be very quiet. It wont be your ears that ache. There is something empty about this place; emptiness that leaves space for an ache. Running is miles and miles! There is no muscle in me that does not ache. I don't get why you don't want me! Not knowing, I nurse this ache. Go as far away as you can go; even in the next room, your absence leaves an ache. I have been reading all day and my eyes are tired; soon, they will begin to ache. I resolve to be firm and independent until I see you. Then I become small, and ache. The clovers cover you until you are made of luck. The dirt covers me until I am made of ache. If I punch your teeth through the sides of your cheeks, then will you tell me it only aches? When you left my love, dearheart, it throbbed and died. It's alive again now, but aches. Lover, come back to bed. There is an emptiness in me that aches. Every time you smile so Cheshire I want to make you ache. Get a little bolder; it's the only way to end the ache. |
AuthorRachel Rosenberg; poetlawyer Archives
September 2017
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