A poem to read after the extract from Harriet Goodchild’s writing. They complement one another beautifully.
You will know without telling
the cause of my despair.
I cannot put it into words—
you must return me to life.
The cause of my despair
is in those nights, music-fired.
You must return me to life
under stage lights, roses, cheering.
In those nights, music-fired
I sang for you, for all joy in singing
under stage lights—roses, cheering
like wine, like love pouring.
I sang for you. For all joy in singing
we let slip the weight of brocade
(like wine, like love pouring)
to fill every corner of our need.
I let slip the weight of brocade;
I left the stage lights burning
to fill every corner of our need
time and again. Did you not see
I left the stage lights burning?
I cannot put it into words
time and again. Do you now see?
You will know without telling.
Still thinking about those undelivered letters
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