Unwritten Things

But she had loved unwritten things instead,
I pondered as night’s windows filled with gray
and all the things the rain had left unsaid.

To live not of the heart but of the head
has been my curse, each memo to its tray,
but she had loved unwritten things instead.

That such unlikes, by wry chance, should be wed!
What, in this voiceless autumn’s disarray,
of all the things the rain has left unsaid,

but walks that road, kneels in the flashing red,
as if she would awaken where she lay,
for she had loved unwritten things instead.

Who knows where noon’s flecked sidewalks might have led
had I let schedules look the other way?
And all the things the rain has left unsaid

might have voice still, the A string that was dead,
the improvised sonatas she would play,
for she had loved unwritten things instead,
and all the things the rain has left unsaid.

Written by M Ragland | Source

YouTube Therapy

When I need to relax this is what I listen to.

 

It’s verging on hypnotic, read by Benedict Cumberbatch. I’ve been amazed to note that poetry doesn’t work unless you devote yourself. The meaning is so thick, meaning every word counts, almost counting double in comparison to prose, that you need to be fully engaged to not miss something. This was written in 1819 so not all turns of phrase are immediately accessible, making it that much harder. But when the rhythm is right, such as in this clip, meaning is clearer. Conclusion: poetry appears to be compacted meaning and emotion carried on the winds of rhythm. And I love it.