“But When I Got There”

“But When I Got There”

But when I got there she was gone. She’d left
No plea, no word where she’d be; I read her psalms a while,
A scribbled promissory note–revealed, not written–styled
In slashes, rushed laconic storms as if she’d dreamt,
Then scribbled some several images and icons that came
To mind, their colors, shapes, emphatic significance long lost.
But yes, of course, a cornacopia of some importance with costs
To others never mentioned, measures all the same;
Her markers, a pocket watch, a dance card, rounds again
Erased, replaced by later exponents and functions, the last
Of greater importance than the first, as if somehow all past
Positions, titles, desertions and queues were prearranged
By station assigned more than content stoked and enflamed,
And as with her I had come first, I no longer had a name.

4 responses to ““But When I Got There”

  1. Great blog………..

  2. Now past and gone, but one can be with someone and be gone too, distance not measured by miles but by thoughts and deeds. Is it best to go? or stay and be apart together? … again your words echo round my head as I read them., “but when I got there”, says it all, two people there but not at the same time…
    xPenx

  3. I think you’ve hit the nail on the head, Mme. Pen. Contrary to public opinion, there is life after whatever the affair and however great the magnitude of any affection, and more often than not, it is enough to rest assured that whether together in this world or not, whatever was “real” or “meaningful” does not simply disappear because the changes and chances of this world decree what seem for all intents and purposes to be separate paths:

    “But soon we will die, and all memory of those five will have left earth, and we ourselves will be loved for a while and forgotten. But the love will have been enough; all those impulses of love return to the love that made them.

    Even memory is not necessary for love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead, and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.”

    The Bridge of San Luis Rey
    by Thornton Wilder
    [17 April 1897 – 7 December 1975]

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