After The Poetry

Elena Broch

After the verses have been written there’s no reconciliation
Poetry is the worst of all betrayals
The knife stuck in the back right up to the hilt
When poetry starts, it’s all over
The exclusivity
As always, that little vice which adorns
Those who love
Those who love without thinking
Those who leave and return
Expecting to see the same arrangement of trees
The same holes in the rafters of my building
(remnants of the Allies’ present for Easter 1944)
After the verses have been written, there’s no apologizing
If it could be, it would be
If it was worthy, these verses wouldn’t be written
If it as curable, I wouldn’t patch my wound with them
I embroidered my wound by hand, with a gold thread
Filigree work
Handmade
You think you can buy it?
The wound stitched with pure gold is priceless
After the verses have been written, there’s no forgiving,
I don’t like the same streets any more,
Ploughed under a million times
Into my verses
They are worse worn out than our words on the phone
And more devastated/wasted than our encounter
Much colder than the snow that was falling then
And much bewildering than the image of the snow falling then
And around the street lamp could be seen the swirl of snowflakes
Don’t think you know the real value of the ache I feel
Don’t even think I feel a real ache
It has been written
The pain’s gone
After I’d written the verses, you became false
You became distant
Impersonal like the boulevards
If you try to say something
I’ll know it’s out of boredom
You have nothing to say any more
The ache is precious
The worlds are created out of it
One disappears into it
You can do anything you like now
Feel free to love me
You have no poetry for me to write

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