from FOR S., 8 POEMS– 7 & 8

A poem.

7 When We’re Gone

I wish you hadn’t deleted
The 600+ messages we shared,
Cavafy, koans, fiesty sex.
I smiled, laughed out loud
At your puns, double entendres
Every time I re-read them.
Your daughters, my sons,
Not horrified, might have found
Intriguing the kind of people
We were that year–the future
Eerily beautiful–a glyph
Lined canyon, then horizon.

8 After

Red bison, black stags, frozen
In fire light on a cave wall.
And, beneath the gallery, there,
Not together, a blonde woman,
A dark-eyed man. This cave
A place of memories, we’ve come
To re-visit the past. A past
Not resolved, only abandoned.

© slovitt 2020
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critique and comments welcome.

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Been there—done that— but without mentioning Cavafy, koans, fiesty sex. ๐Ÿ˜‰ We all write about our memories differently. I wonder if these are true memories (I sense a yearning) or wishful thinking?
I prefer to think the former. Anyway I enjoyed the read…


Hi Swep, I remember the second one from before. First makes me smile. Glad your kids not horrified. Mine cannot stand the thought of their mother being sexually active. Put them off their porrige for sure ๐Ÿ˜‰ I feel I am reading the second stanza differently from before. I am seeing a couple visiting a cave they have visited before on this occasion separately. The feeling that links both is a sense of the archaic, even primitive? The cave is very symbolic as is the firelight. The descriptions of the two people too. Dreams so real and unrealised in the… Read more ยป

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Oh, great changes to the ending of When We’re Gone. The whole, told in personal details, evokes a sadness, a deep regret about what ‘didn’t work out’ as read between the lines, so to speak. And in the last two lines there’s a palpable, even heart breaking sense of lost possibilities. Really, really like this.

Wish you’d submitted these separately for I’d definitely make the first a favorite. ๐Ÿ™‚


We were that year the future and A past not resolved, only abandoned, such telling words, beautifully connected, passion, love, the forever undercurrent in these haunting poems that had to be written.

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