Thursday, January 14, 2010

The Weeping at Twilight

The Weeping at Twilight

The crying sound drifted through the twilight
some unseen girl, at first boo-hooing
that fake kind of crying children muster
and I, snug in my room, ignored it.
Then the sound became more throaty
more real than fake and it took on
that gasping sobbiness for which
there are no words. I grew disturbed
how it broke the twilight silence
and how old was she anyway,
hiding where in the dark?
Not a child, not by that dusky
sound of human pain.
I stopped what I was doing, got up,
and searched the twilight shrubbery
from my windows. No sign of her.
Then a wrenching howl
and faintly the words help me
reached my open windows.
I remembered then the nights
I sobbed in so much anguish
I cried out to the night help me,
help me
, as if someone might hear
might come down and hold me.
Why did my heart then harden
to the cry of the girl in the twilight?
Perhaps because someone will come,
or someone will not come, and she
will survive this desperation;
she will stop sometime and rest,
and the twilight will swallow
all of this.

weeping girl painting by shruthi, age 11, at saatchi gallery uk


Just Be Real said...

Emotional pain can be so raw and ripping. Sometimes all we want is someone to hold us. Thanks for sharing.

the walking man said...

It is interesting how the painting touched you Just Chris. God knows we have stifled all of the child and when the twilight comes for some reason that is when the kid wakes up.

lakeviewer said...

There is a lot pain we hold back, cover up with blankets, decorate it with pearls, hoping it will stay quiet or asleep forever.

Painters and poets know how to shine a light on that hidden truth.

Yes, Chris, those are indoor citrus trees, lovingly nurtured by the windows until summer. I have tried to do this with no success,( I either overfeed them or overwater them), a few times. This batch came home with me from Los Angeles. They are flowering and perfuming the entire house. Lucky me.

Kim A. said...

Took me back to when I was 16. A tough time for me...but I made it. That's what really matters.

And I love the gift that 11 y.o. artist has.


Kass said...

This is a truly raw poem. I like it. It has an honesty most poems miss.

Lou said...

I wonder how many times I have heard someone cry "help me" and not even known it.

Prayer Girl said...

This grabbed me in the deepest part of my being. It touched a place of deep compassion.

Thank you Enchanted Oak,

Brian Miller said...

written by an 11 year old...i am blown realy...

RNSANE said...

This made me think of my 21 years of work in the child sexual abuse arena. The painting by the little 11-year-old and your poem...very powerful tug at my heart and memories of so many children I innterviewed over the years, or ones I went in to see in the emergency room, bodies ravaged, who tried to tell but no one would listen...who cried in the night...goodness, did this hit home.

Anonymous said...

Sad (sigh).

Syd said...

I have prayed most of my life for God to help me to help myself. I eventually survived a lot but I keep the same prayer. Such a sad and confusing time.

~ Tabitha ~ said...

Wow.That was good.
I have to say-no pain no gain.
It just took me a long time to learn that reality of having emotions..and allowing myself to feel them - and heal them.

You are a powerful writer Chris Enchanted..Thank you for sharing.

Karen said...

Oh, how powerful is this! Those last few lines - where the speaker is immune to the need - are so real, spoken by a survivor who knows.

Woman in a Window said...

Holy geeZ! You've got me all goosebumps and foreboding. HOly holy.

Shadow said...

damn girl, this is OUTSTANDING!

Beth said...