Poem from 2002
THE ABYSS
WHEN ALL THAT WAS HOPE IS DARKNESS
AND ALL THAT WAS DREAMT IS ASLEEP AND
I STAND ON THE BALCONY LOOKING OUT;
LOOKING BACK AT MINUTES, YEARS, WASTED
PEERING INTO MIRRORS OF MEASURE;
STEPPING ON SCALES OF VALUE AND WORTH;
LOOKING INTO EYES BEFORE MINE;
EQUALLY LOST IN BARREN LANDS OF RAGE AND SELF-DISGUST;
WRITHING IN SLICK MUDS OF NARCISSISM;
THEN WILL I LOOK FURTHER
OVER THE EDGE
INTO THE ABYSS OF
DESPERATION THAT IS HELD BACK BY LITTLE MORE THAN THE
WOOD RAILING PRESSED IN AGAINST MY SIDE
AND THERE
IN THE DARK OF MY FAILURE
WILL BE THAT WARM, FORGIVING BREEZE
RISING UP FROM THE VALLEY TO CUP MY FACE
AND BRUSH BACK MY HAIR TENDERLY
LIKE THE WEATHERED AND GENTLE HANDS OF JESUS.
WHEN ALL THAT WAS HOPE IS DARKNESS
AND ALL THAT WAS DREAMT IS ASLEEP AND
I STAND ON THE BALCONY LOOKING OUT;
LOOKING BACK AT MINUTES, YEARS, WASTED
PEERING INTO MIRRORS OF MEASURE;
STEPPING ON SCALES OF VALUE AND WORTH;
LOOKING INTO EYES BEFORE MINE;
EQUALLY LOST IN BARREN LANDS OF RAGE AND SELF-DISGUST;
WRITHING IN SLICK MUDS OF NARCISSISM;
THEN WILL I LOOK FURTHER
OVER THE EDGE
INTO THE ABYSS OF
DESPERATION THAT IS HELD BACK BY LITTLE MORE THAN THE
WOOD RAILING PRESSED IN AGAINST MY SIDE
AND THERE
IN THE DARK OF MY FAILURE
WILL BE THAT WARM, FORGIVING BREEZE
RISING UP FROM THE VALLEY TO CUP MY FACE
AND BRUSH BACK MY HAIR TENDERLY
LIKE THE WEATHERED AND GENTLE HANDS OF JESUS.
posted by Becky Nelson @ 8:05 AM
6 Comments:
At 6:00 PM,
Jacob said…
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
At 6:02 PM,
Jacob said…
2002... I imagine the rail was to the back deck of our house on the ridge. I had the luxury of living with you in this year, so the poem strikes an even deeper chord. It is achingly beautiful.
At 8:55 PM,
Jacob said…
Isn't it strange how the deepest entries you write will end up being the ones with the least comments? People make me laugh. And cringe. And roll my eyes.
At 7:35 AM,
Becky Nelson said…
The few people that read my blog site are probably very busy but I think that one who comments has a little more depth to the soul.
Or maybe just loves me more.
Commenting on other peoples blog spots just isn't easy.
Plus, its intimidating.
I am not hurt. Just disappointed.
I will still write because it really feels good. And some stranger might stumble upon it and be moved even if THEY don't comment.
No comments does not mean no readership. And readership is more important than the interaction. I think.
At 12:35 PM,
Jacob said…
Yeah, that is true. I think people shy away from the ones that require a lot of thought. My birth order entry has many comments, while others with less humor and more depth tend to garner little feedback - because comments are revealing. Just interesting, that's all.
At 7:50 PM,
Anonymous said…
You know, Becky, when I read this poem it causes me to realize how little I really know you. I was not aware of how much you have suffered in your short life. Perhaps I didn't want to know or couldn't be trusted with such intimate knowledge. I'm very immature (but growing I hope) and talk about narcissistic! I win the prize, baby! You see? I just did it...I started talking about you and ended up talking about me. Pathetic. I love you, Becky, and relate to this poem a great deal, especially the gentle hands of Jesus on my face.
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