by Richard Vince

My eyes are shadowed.
They are too old to contemplate
This childish state into which
I have thrust myself
Yet again.

There is a lesson, and I
Have learned it, but
Discarded it before I knew
I needed to remember.

My eyes are darkened:
Tired from the exertions of
This madness; tired of
This relapse into an
Adolescent illness I thought
Long since cured.

She is beautiful, but I will
Never write a classic about her.
No: I will merely hammer
Words from the raw pain
That I have focussed on her.

She is not to blame:
She is only being herself.

I will turn back the clock
And relive those dark days
Of teenage torture, and
Leave the business of classics
To her and her eloquence.

So many directions; points of
The compass to which I am
Pulled. My arm aches as
I try to resist through that
Most faithful of allies:
The written word.


Posted on 01/03/2008
Copyright © 2022 Richard Vince

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Alison McKenzie on 01/04/08 at 01:41 AM

Richard, this is just exquisite. Vs. 2 speaks to me and my tendancies directly. It must be ok and natural that we forget sometimes, for it certainly happens often enough.

Posted by Laura Doom on 01/13/08 at 07:27 PM

I'm attempting to recall something you mentioned about asterisks/footnotes - meantime, along with a familiar shift in chronology, this piece has a distinctive physical quality which elevates it from the page. Ineloquence regarding conception perhaps, but certainly not in terms of delivery...

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