Thursday, November 3, 2011

Nov 3: Cannonball

 
Damien Rice: "Cannonball"

Colorado sent me this song tonight. I said
I wish people didn't leave
pieces of themselves in my heart when they go.
She said
she finds solace in listening to songs
that hurt the hollow of her throat.
I imagined sitting on my porch,
swinging and watching,
picking shards of you from my steady, red-beating heart
with tweezers,
one small memory at a time...
solace lodged in my throat,
round and shining,
as if I'd swallowed the moon
when she was full of promises
and good intentions
and misplaced trust.
Maybe I will learn this song,
Cannonball,
so I can sit on my porch swing and
sing it to myself....
but I so rarely play my guitar any more.
I've stopped carrying a pick in my bra,
or maybe it's stuck there in my heart too
next to the songs I won't sing
with you.


8 comments:

  1. Your poem was much better than the song or maybe I should say that your poem touched me in a very true way that the song couldn't. I think I am really going to enjoy reading something new from you every day!

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  2. Don't forget, Human Cannonball, there is a net waiting for you at the other end of the Big Top.

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  3. Thank you, Vapor. I think that song is practically perfect, so I'm flattered that you think my little poem is in the same league.

    I was worried I'd run out of things to say, but I don't think that will happen.

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  4. I'm likely to miss the net, Diplomat.

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  5. Lots to love in this poem, Carol...love the strength of the closing:

    "I've stopped carrying a pick in my bra,
    or maybe it's stuck there in my heart too
    next to the songs I won't sing
    with you."

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  6. Thanks, 'Zann. I usually let poem sit in the incubator for a few days or a year. I decided to just go ahead and post it last night. I've been thinking a lot lately about moving on and how slowly I do it.

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  7. Oh my. I listened to that song many times while picking some shards from my heart. Your poem is perfect.

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  8. Thanks, Lisa. It's too bad you can't tell they're shards when you let them in. Masters of disguise, those shards.

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