He who creates re-creates himself
for René Passeron
You may not grow old too soon
if
Things you have known will come back to you again
No revision nor recall need put them back in place
Time was when you knew the time
the place the face
Even the scarce women in prized moments gone in pain
Who would care nor what would it matter
in which life upon what water
you have trailed your fingers
upon waves of papers
Let your mind brush
some canvas in a rush
Left your mark
upon some bark
Wed some wanton women
spawned wholesome omens
Made as if the artier your words
held some moment in a perennial frame
Never to be banged away by fading suns
collapsing quasars
asteroid storms
puncturing galaxies
usurping black holes
Can this act of writing seize the moment
Or is it your way of saying
What else is there to be done?
Let the unknowable undermine the unknown
Here on this planet
we have made our sinuous conventions
stick to paper and canvas
stone and sound
And words that are haloed
by the sickness of the poet
though all is not lost for the pen
whose blood will
possess
anchor
expose
our futile justifications
explications
ratiocinations
doctoral dissertations
And generations will tremulously grant him
The right to unravel the eternities
For one who dared capture the moment
In the capsule of a poem
Dedicated to René Passeron
(©: T.Wignesan 1987 April 12,1987 [from the collection: back to background material,1993] Pub. in T. Wignesan. Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2008. 'Poem of the Month' at Alongstoryshort site, April 2012.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Block Fall from the Zyklon Door
When you have passed nonplussed
by rumours
of ovens
of being burned alive by the horde
calcinated bones in torrid ashes
teeth without a name
pebbles in the sands of hate waves
When between you and the other side
is the block-flesh thrust through to Himmelweg
too late
you smell the Zyklon trap
about to be sprung on your innocence
your children looking to you for a way out
not daring to believe
you have left home without an answer
You can only wonder at how they led you
each child's hand ensconced in its mother's
the old and the infirm weeded out
the pill in the nape
of men rushed ahead from their charges
huddled
slapped jostled
whipped
for daring to ask with rifle butt
whacked
jabbed bundled
trundled
the eye searching hazily the breach under the helmet
benumbed fate
squashed hope
in the last faltering meek steps
It's only
when you're on the other side of yourself
between you and the block-flesh
forming on the other side of the zyklon door
You may wonder why you let your anger go
in safekeeping
Dedicated to those sacrificed in Concentration Camps during World War II.
(© T.Wignesan 1987: July 2,1987 [from the collection: back to background material,1993])
poem by T. Wignesan
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Gérard Sekoto, In Memorium (1913-1993)
I
Would that anger subside
anger fed on pride
pride of I against You
who is right: I not YOU
meum et tuum
Some words hastily released on the verge of angry pride
Tear from us a part of our flesh
a part of our cells
Leaving us lesser men forever pitted against the
I in You
forever wanting to be right
I above You
You may not - yes, now I know you didn't - have meant it
Your words were stony arrows sunk in the mud of my hurt
splitting even before they found the unintended target
There may yet have lingered then a little bit of the malin in you
That ultimate grace-saver in your embattled loneliness
I didn't stop to think
I had to show you I was hurt
I didn't realise your hurt was legendary
already formed and contorted in the aeons of darkness
each in our indelible separateness
Your age your despair your self-abandonment
in the gorge of medicines
in the crises that felled you
careering through terrifying electric storms
leaving you year after year worsted
wiping duster-strokes of your memory clean
I didn't stop to think
II
Your demise is the passing of an age
is the passing of a people's pain
unrequited
In your veins you take with you a hundred years
of hurts and slings
of dismemberment and mindlessness
of lost chances anguish and despair
though
driven into your lonesome corner
upright against the inroads of a Rhodes
or the pitted power of Buthelesis
finding in the milling Seine
in the plucky rhythms of an ebony-and-ivory keyboard
in the hidden skeins of your eyes
a pulse
beating with the heart of downtrodden generations
the infinitely pulsing look of defiance
that ultimate refusal of defeat
III
Long are the years you have lain your easel down
Longer still the sun at Botshebelo burnishing your skin
In the soft autumnal retreat of your heart
You could still hear children playing in the mission station
You saw with what glee they jigged in Sophiatown
And bled for your brothers enchained in District Six
Away in the quiet slumber of a land you loved
You wrought the blazing colours of a secret rage
of man's will thriving in his limbs
of an enduring passion for hope
in the dance of stoic joyousness
in the embrace of a Mandela
Not a shaft of light escaped your hunt for
traces of your childhood
nor
were lost the spare airs that filtered through shanty-towns
Your world was a world of people
simple people
going about their chores with premeditated caution
oppressed people
endowed by need with the guile for survival
People for whom you lived
People who live on in your veins
uninterred in your carved canvasses
(Poem read by the author at Sekoto's funeral in Neuilly-sur-Marne, France)
(©: T.Wignesan, March 29,1993 [from the collection: back to background material,1993] Pub. in Journal of Comparative Poietics, Vol. II (1993) , Paris & T. Wignesan. Poietics: Disquisitions on the Art of Creation. Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2008.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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A cure for forty death-dealing cells
Impotent at birth
Impotent at death
and only somewhat potent in between
Why were you born without your own consent
What was the karmic guilt of your first birth
and what about those maimed in the mind
crippled in the womb
eaten by meningitis
by herpes
by syphillis
by aids
What are their chances of mending their karma
And what about that baby born without a brain
How is it to be blamed
for not giving its organs to some transplant bank
Who cares if you live on
If you die
who cares
and for how long
Does one have to care
being but ephemeral
(© T. Wignesan, April 2,1992, Paris - from the collection: back to background material,1993)
poem by T. Wignesan
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Born to die at Stromboli
« Think, the world remembers only the poets. The name of a country depends on how its poets behave. »
Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, the Philosopher-President of India*
Whoever dies at his Stromboli
needs no excuse to be born
as those who sail their ships
to the farther regions of the mind
even if they lose their way
finding their way back to sanity
While those who invent the Soul
construct pyramids
cathedrals
stupas
to raise those royal patrons
who raised them
to the skies
or even
those who lived to soothe others
with televisions
cars
innoculations
like those who raised townships
settled industries on reclaimable land
Much like those who gave their names
to bills of rights
to streets
faculty buildings
political dynasties
All these and more may need no excuse
Such even centuries hence may not accuse
But where alas is the poet
the painter of million melodies
assailing the living tastes of times
and bounded traditions
they that need to be examined
explained
exclaimed
declaimed
Men who have strayed from the volcano of their birth
For fear of leaving no revenge nor challenge on this earth
Note
* The philosopher's parting words to me in New Delhi when he was the vice-president in May 1961.
(©: T. Wignesan, May 30,1987, Paris, from the collection: back to background material,1993]
poem by T. Wignesan
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On hearing that Ronnie...
To recall a friend
is never an adieu
he has merely stepped across the landing
the light still beams the door's ajar
you can hear him pacing humming swinging the windows
to let the street in the warmth
the wind ruffled
through his half-opened shirt
Across the spare digs halfway to the Schloss
austere in the shaded light slanting on drab curtains
the bare table rough-hewn the dishevelled books
the gaping porcelain jug and still wet basin
the whiff of fresh-bitten soap the close shave
and the stiff white collar excusing the day-old striped shirt
A gentle tap the door opens to a glass of port
cut bread
and even if you will not
cheese
'Beware! Beware you don't become an Hasbeen! '
he made no bones of his luck from stipends through Reading
the wideopen eyes commisserating through the flailing sheaf
fallen on his ample brow
the hand ever brushing aside
that wilful unconcern in your life
in your little worries your mishaps
And you knew you had mattered in his life
To recall a friend
is to give body to form
to words that bind muscle to bone
those mutual moments
You may come back a quarter of a century later
And he is still there a trifle stumped by your aged face
the mutual moments flow without break
You had driven through four sleepless nights
your eyes peeled beyond weariness
your mind bristling and in the red
'Take care! Take care', he said, 'lest you burn both ends! '
Other worlds other duties
keep you from bringing up his face
keep you from keeping mementoes:
'Never excuse, never apologise! '
yes you might have penned a word
when the stolid face swung back
you didn't for that would've been abrupt
too flippant unceremonious requiring tact
So you turn up a l'improviste
the mutual moments flow over coffee at the Konditorei
the same cream curtains
the same goldbraided periodlike chairs
over neatly folded ceremoniallike lace
the irreal flood of filtered light
outside
no more the tug and grating pull of trams to dull your words
Again the same attentive stare the same empathic vigil
for your fresh worries for your private imbroglios
while he foregoes a meal at the mensa
Only you hadn't known nor suspected
the stealthy pain gnawing away at the bones
nor did he let it be shown
Only the stoic face and the pained look
for your own blasé pain
Dedicated to Ronald Hindmarsh-Midwood (May 24,1930 - January 17,1992) *
(*Ronnie taught English at Heidelberg University when I first met him during the summer semester in 1957.)
(© T.Wignesan, July 4,1992 - Published as a « preface » to Ronald Hindmarsh's commemorative writings: « Mr. Hindmarsh is not writing a book.' 1993; from the collection: back to background material,1993]
poem by T. Wignesan
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Paths in the Private Country
The memory in need
Is the implacable enemy of the creed,
Waits and watches its foe
The all-clawing frenzy on tip-toe;
Quiescent in the instant's repose
The thud of flurried gnawing years evoke.
The poet in his solitary moments, spoke
Those whispered words, memory's secret ear yoke.
His wares, his scares, ailments and balms
Suddenly at the oasis of his thirst, awoke
Transilluminating the hard wad of his private notes,
Clutching at the infant's murmurous innocence
The clear innocuous dogma of cries;
While his immodestly preened notes of travesty
Hark back; and the first poem playfully struck
Teaches him now too late the laugh, the critic's qualms.
Just as the poet had wandered away from childhood,
So will the child thwart the unspoilt man
And shyly, shyly he turns away from the poet
Coming in like a stray camp-follower to brood.
For who may ask which the supreme poet
The child's sweet ineffable musings disrespect
While language etherises meanings proudly sown:
The title in two is halved - one the art, one, lone.
And the man, memory's ill-begotten infant
Lurking round the corner, pranks the urgent moment
Or two - then restores the poet to the poem.
(© T. Wignesan,1957 - First pub. in 'Diskus', University of Frankfurt-am-Main,1960; from the collection: T. Wignesan. Tracks of a Tramp. Kuala Lumpur-Singapore: 1961)
poem by T. Wignesan
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This Is The Moment
This is the moment
This is the day
This is the moment
When I know
I am on my way
Every endeavor
I have made ever
Is coming into play
Is here and now today
This is the moment
This the time
When the momentum
And the moment
are in rhyme
Give me this moment
My precious chance
I'll gather up my best
And make some sense atlast
This is the moment
When all I've done
All of the dreaming,
scheming
And screaming
becomes one
This is the day,
Just see it shine
When all that I have lived for
Becomes mine
This is the moment
This is the hour
When I can open up,
Tomorrow
like a flower
And put my hand to
Everything I plan to
Fulfill my grand desire
See all my stars align
This is the moment
My final test
Destiny beckoned
I never reckoned second best
I won't look back
I must not fall
This is the moment
The sweetest moment
Of them all
This is the moment
So double the odds
This day or never
I'll sit forever
with the gods
When I look back
I will recall
Moment for moment
This was the moment
The greatest moment of them all.
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Too late for amends
It is as though an unjust hand punished you
As if the Adlerian guiltless position in the constellation wasn't enough
toppling you from a pedestal
You were groomed for position
for heading a family
vacated by the head himself
out of time
So they protected you
pampered you
the custom required it
there were sisters whose dowries you were supposed to earn
there were grounds whose circumferences you were designated to crush
there were centuries and goals you were bound to knock with stick and bat
there were exams you were deemed to sail through
there were jobs you were merely to inherit on merit
The second son was sacrificed
He was too close a second
They turned a deaf eye to your sacrificial deeds
the suffocating cries
'Work on what has been spoiled by the father and the mother.'
-Hexagram 18-
Other hands worked on the second son
Other sacrifices nearly came to pass
Fierce jungles
swirling muddy rivers
stalking cobras
poisonous thorns
aboriginal hunters
even your suffocating arms to lock the broken neck
fresh from a hanging
These worked
where the mother and father failed
and instilled a wish for survival in your Abel
How could you be blamed for being the first born boy
if the second took longer to arrive
or instead came as a baby girl
Neither parent may be faulted
How could either have known or foreseen
Your traversing of the desert
alone
often in shame
in fear of being found out
You kept your back straight
You honoured your position
You wore that air of masterfulness
in your stride
in your respect for the meek for the fairer sex
in your willingness to come to the aid of the needy
in your alas mind's reach
bereft of the means to give it authority
In your own mind
you had wandered far
as far and beyond the distances of your strides
within three posts four walls open ground and air
you never bothered with approving thumps on the back
nor the little-watched heroic actions on some turf
nor did you recount these match-winning feats
in a thirst for applause
You were the quintessential sportsman
You played your last game alone
far away from your folk
You had no wish for a farewell
Yet you are mourned in pain by all
Dedicated to T. Ganesan (1931-1985)
(© T.Wignesan 1993, Paris, April 14,1993; from the collection: back to background material,1993]
poem by T. Wignesan
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The Shadows Fell
April was a lovely girl, her warmth was in her eyes
And she and I would walk within the calm of clear blue skies
Too short our time together, and what time consisted of
I knew her well, the shadows fell
See, April was my love...
A young man then, I knew the things a young man knows
But somehow lost it all with age, I guess that's how it goes
But April understood, and in time revealed to me
Reflection, my direction
And what April was to be...
She became to me the way to love's soothing caress
The answers to all questions, life and love, were met with yes
All that April showed to me, my heart still now believes
To take her place, her smiling face
April love, my heart still grieves...
Our time together had the look, forever on it's face
The hands of time stood still for us, in arm, and sweet embrace
It wasn't meant to be for us, nor I to have the sound
But she was singing, bells were ringing
As she felt the darkened ground...
Too soon my April left me, to some higher plane I'm sure
To wait for me to come someday, and reminisce with her
To tell me why each tear was lost, each April that I cried
As love turned to loss, inside the cross
When my April died...
Winter's breath blows hard upon her memory now
But I remember April, springtime love and lifetime vow
Sometimes I can feel her touch, and feel the gentle breeze
The days and nights, the wrongs the rights
There are many thoughts of these...
Many years ago now, April's love had held my heart
Too many days, and nights spent now without, but not apart
And I would trade my todays, for yesterday to be...
With April once again, and back to when
April was my love, you see.......
poem by Dino Evans
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On Authors, Critics and Readers
Some leave behind a hard-won name
Others only fame
A few the sweat and tears of their passage
Snatched from the rigours of their age
Yet none the folly of the game
Fiction is licensed perjury
The coward's excuse for character
Courage revelation originality veracity
All conspire to make for a writer
All mirrors distort
Reviewers like haïr-dressers retort
And mistake the fall of water for the harp
A mere critic can only carp
If what you see is repugnant
close your ever envious eyes
and you'll even see in darkness
and the reason for your blindness
(© T. Wignesan, Paris - 2006. Pub. in T. Wignesan. Rama and Ravana at the Altar of Hanuman: on Tamils, Tamil Literature and Tamil Culture. Chennai: Institute of Asian Studies,2006 & Allahabad: Cyberwit.net,2008.)
poem by T. Wignesan
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At A Loss For Words
Some time had passed since a verse had come to mind
a mental blockage I have had, nothing seemed to rhyme.
No words of creation the supply had gone
no thoughts, or imagination, nothing, not a one.
The source had stopped for some strange reason,
as though there was a break in the poetry season.
I tried and I tried, but nothing would come together,
not even with a change in the weather.
In the early hours I woke up and had to pick up a pen,
for some strange reason I began writing again.
It is quite odd and I’ll never get to know
why periods of poetry come and go.
But I’m thankful when words and lines come to me
it is as though they are sent telepathically.
It doesn’t matter if the poem is incorrect or good
or if it’s taken as silly, or is misunderstood.
As long as it relays that moment’s thought
an instinctive message that cannot be taught.
To me it doesn’t matter if its only two lines long,
or whether it has many verses, or even sounds wrong.
When thoughts of words or sentences come to mind
I have to write them down no matter the place or time.
If I don’t record the thought on paper right away
they become lost forever in the space of night and day.
poem by Orlando Belo
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Something
I'm writing in hope for something with sweet melody,
A rhythm that can be felt,
A beauty that can be read.
With words flowing like water over rocks,
Steadily without fault or obstruction.
A liquid in its purest state.
I'm writing in hope for something with sweet remembrance,
Like the scent of falling rain,
Or the memorable sound of a mothers cooing voice.
Something so memorable,
The slightest reminder sends you back to the exact moment,
Replaying in unbroken pattern of mind.
I'm writing in hope for something spectacular to happen,
For my words to form a feeling so deep they hurt,
For each image to be as clear as these words on this paper.
I want you to feel what I feel,
A feeling of lonely discontent,
Sitting alone in my own my own world, writing away.
I am writing this in hope for something to stick with you,
A message or a meaning that I've hidden inside a syllable,
A voice of reason that you have kept from yourself,
Silenced with the voice of your shallow desires.
A dream that you once had forgotten,
Lost in the darkness of the night.
I am writing this in hope for something to be brought to light.
Maybe a buried thought that you wish you never had,
Or an inner conflict that you hadn't noticed but feel tearing apart your skin,
Even an aspiration you promised to live up to but left to die.
Something so lost in the world of your mind,
Swallowed by deep chasms of thought and memory.
I am writing this in hope of telling a story.
The story of a world that can only be imagined in a dark room,
Hidden from the world and apart from anything else.
The story of a broken heart of a shortened life,
The story of the silent cries of a lost soul reaching for sanity.
My own story, perhaps, or even yours, is this your story?
I am writing in hope of making your thoughts and feelings dance,
A slow and steady music in the background,
Propelling your eyes left to right and back again.
Following the steps of each word,
The flow off each line and stanza.
An endless waltz with the reader and the writer, will you dance with me?
I am writing in hope of making an impression on your mind,
Maybe not an everlasting one, but even just a brief moment,
A moment of realization that you are now reading what I have written,
That for one moment in time our minds share the same space and thought,
Each word playing in our head the same as the other's.
Can you hear my voice, can you feel my thoughts?
I don't know why I am writing, or why I am writing what I am writing,
But I know that it has accomplished one thing,
It has given a purpose to something, if even just a piece of paper,
It has given worth to something that at one point was just a blank sheet,
Waiting for something to be etched into its surface, making it something.
I guess that's why I'm writing, I'm just writing; something.
poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Poem Without A First Line
for no real poem has a first line
any more than a real book
has a first page
it comes out of a dark lost forest
or a bright unknowing cloud
or an unbearable pain
so unbearable that even
if you wrote the poem on a piece of paper
and threw the paper away
it would ease the pain
or a childhood so miserable
that only a complete change of life
could recognise one single beautiful thought
or an astonishing moment
when you knelt and prayed
for the first time in your life
to a god you did not know
with words you did not understand
for they were not even words
or the moment when all the horror of the world
faced all the love and beauty in the world
and both were so taken aback
that they could only embrace
and later, speak
or a nowhere and a nothing
so stark that only poetry
without a first line
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Some Other Time
Lead vocal: peter straker
In a matter of a moment
Lost till the end of time
Its the evening of another day
And the end of mine
Now the starlight which has found me
Lost for a million years
Tries to linger as it fills my eyes
Till it disappears
Could it be that somebody else is
Looking into my mind
Some other place
Somewhere
Some other time
Some other place
Somewhere
Some other time
Like a mirror held before me
Large as the sky is wide
And the image is reflected
Back to the other side
Could it be that somebody else is
Looking into my mind
Some other place
Somewhere
Some other time
Some other place
Somewhere
Some other time
song performed by by Alan Parsons Project
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Carpe Diem
actually my dear, the most that matters is
now. This is the moment. There is no other.
what is inside my palm is not yours to guess
for i may not follow your wish
your dream, what is here inside me is alive
but only for this moment, there is no time to think
or imagine. This is only the moment. The now.
This is the only moment. It is now.
Hold my hand. As we pass the river of our lives.
Do not look back, as the rush of the water may be
too harsh. Look at my eyes. This is the only moment.
Do not look down at your feet. The water is flowing.
And flowing. There is nothing that you can hold
with your fingers and drink. It is and it will be impossible
to grasp, a past reality, a future possibility.
This is the only moment.This is the only truth. Grab it
with both hands and tell me. Now, is the only truth. This
moment of our lives. You hear the sound of a cascade.
That is what we are now.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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0009 Favorite Poem
and you can’t remember much
about the first time you read it except
that it held you to the end, but most of all
this one line, which seemed to hold
the key to the whole poem
as if you were opening the closet of your mind
to bring out something which you knew was there
but instead something way at the back
called to you and you remembered
a moment from way back you thought
you had forgotten
and then you read the poem again
in company with the poet and
yes that’s it, and the two of you
became friends for life, almost
related.
So, now you’ve read all their poems,
feel some more than others but
as if you wrote them all in the same room
where you read them together
and you wait for their new book with
a sorta family pride
and like family,
you leave the poems for a spell,
grow up a little, then
come back to visit -
they mean more;
can it be,
you've both grown?
each time you come back to them
you carry them more close to you
in fact you feel that you could write
poems very much like theirs
as if you’d inherited, too,
the family gift
and though you wouldn’t of course
seek them out in person except
in a reading where you’d
have to share their warmth
with the rest of their extended family
but not say much since
you are a, well, close relative,
if you happened to be driving a route
not far from them, you’d detour,
park a little distance from their house,
but have it in your sight,
hope you might catch a movement,
wait a few minutes, then
start the car with almost a sigh
half relieved that you didn’t have to try
on their cautiously polite doorstep
to find words to say
you love them in their words,
which you almost wrote together,
lived them together;
love them like life itself,
love them
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Black Angel
One day in my life
I was walking along the road
then suddenly I saw this bright garmented angel
looking at me
with a smile on his face
so serene his posture was
I utterly lost my words
to speak anything
at the sight
so grandeur and in awe
I asked to myself
what in the world do I have to do
with this....
then the angel quietly held my hand
and led me to his world
a bit dark though clean however
I was abiding with him
for some time
until the time came
and I took off for
some far off lands
never to return to him again
but I do still remember
the joy he shared with me
the caring he gave to me
though it was quite a long ago
I still remember the smile on his face
and a little hello
a wink that it was.....
such a blissful moment
I recall still as the most
awesome moment that had ever happened
in my life
How can I forget that moment
and all the joy we shared together
with the angel right beside me
though some others might have been
a bit jealous of us
and tried to take us apart from each other
we stayed together in that heavenly bliss
But some really took us apart
by no means we wanted that to happen
but it did happen
so I no longer have that joy
nor bliss that I shared with this angel
that dark angel
in black clothes
with black smile on his face
with some mysterious look on his face
which I still can't comprehend
Ah! Where is he now?
Would he be thinking about me?
Would he have forgotten about me and
all the joy we shared together
in that some far away places
Only God can answer this questions..
for He is the one that made it happen
But today I recall the long-gone days again
and reminiscent it again
thinking about that beautiful creature
the black angel he was...
8: 43 pm
(November 13,2012) Korea-Japan time
poem by Sangnam Nam
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Waiting in the Sunset (Sonnet 7)
The moment I hear the waves crash and tear
At the walls of my shelter, slowly worn
Slowly giving way, with little to spare
Little to gain from the old, dead and torn
The moment I take flight; the moment sworn
The moment I see that tasteful sunset
That beautiful glance at your face adorned
With colors gleaming, fading; I regret
I hang me head lowly I just can't let
You slip away this one last tempting time
I have to savor the moment I met
You, words could not pantomime
The one moment I could receive you fading
Fading in the sunset, I have to stop waiting
poem by Robert Lawrence
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The power of words
Sometimes when you had
an idea for a poem
you didn’t jot it down
and let it be
to fade away into the naught
as if it really didn’t matter
or your words had lost their power
or was there a hidden fear,
something that you didn’t
want to talk about
or something that you didn’t
want to appear,
something that you were afraid
would kill your luck
or disturb your thoughts?
When we spoke at times
you would sarcastically say
go and write a poem about it
and I wonder if you really
didn’t care about writing
or just not about me
or was it jealousy?
Sometimes when the words
of a great poem came to me
you would demand that I immediately
do something for you
to proof my love
and not give me the opportunity
to capture the sacred words.
Yet, as time went by
and I had to leave
the words came back to you
and great verses appeared
and you said that I could string out
poems to the nth power
and wanted me
to write great messages as well
and I was afraid that card like lines
would kill the magic of words in me.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stolen Moments
Because you were stillborn my little niece
The moment of me holding you in my arms for the first time has been stolen.
I’ll never have that moment of hearing you say my name that moment has also been stolen.
I’ll never feel your sweet kisses on my cheek or your hugs around my neck more stolen moments.
A lot of the special moments we would have shared have been stolen.
But I want you to know the moment of me loving you my little sweet angel was not.
The moment I knew of you; you stole my heart.
I’ll love you in this moment and every moment for the rest of my life.
This poem is dedicate in memory to my little niece who I passed away today 3/1/08. She was stillborn