David Robison

Tag: unrequited

  • Hazel, a second

    When I looked into your eyes, I now confess –
    although aloud I asked, “Are they green, brown, hazel, blue?” –
    for a second, I thought of another woman.

    Who is this second woman?
    Who?

    Is it the girl then the woman who
    because of fear,
    I loved from afar, but never dared to draw near?

    The shiny haired girl from class
    Gillian and then Elizabeth?
    I never spoke to her.
    I was not like Jonathan, so brave and arrogant.

    So then, did I see Hattie who I loved so far
    beyond any rational measure?
    Like yours, her eyes sparkled, like treasure, in play.
    Bereft upon each homeward journey,
    for ten full years,
    when I was a child with no means, no tools and no verse.

    And Helen loved me not a jot!
    It was not of her that I thought,
    Even though on that mast
    I wilfully tore a freshly adult heart.

    So by then, fearing pain I turned away, for safety
    from all of Charlotte’s grace.
    True, there was something like this in her face.

    Now, in this second, I see this woman I have loved but never held.

    Let’s call her Hazel.
    Hazel is my idea, my life’s silent longing.
    An absence, an ache, she is self-inlaid with artistry and care.

    And yet instead of absence,
    I feel in my hand,
    your hair.

    My lips close on yours, and when,
    in a second, I open my eyes
    I see her real, alive and smiling there.

    Written by

    David

  • In images still

    It is only a ghost that preoccupies this space.
    A curve of your hair, photographed at the mirror’s edge.

    I can own that absence in images still:
    Your hand holds a dish, or a ceramic dog,
    intuited in slips and glazes.

    Your fingers do cusp the solid ceramic, 
    but a boy’s longing swells from Autumns past –
    Forlornly there, I incanted,
    from cold steps overlooking the valley.
    Sad now, for that melancholy boy.

    On the valley’s far side, the night’s amber necklaces glowed and said nothing
    from a field of new houses, where other girls lived, 
    to whom I’ve written nothing.

    This brings up a question.

    I didn’t ask what is it,
    simply went and made that visit.

    Although I bravely drove the car,
    with you beside me, noting my inexperience,
    I was nervous and said little.

    Beyond that, we did play chess, remotely,
    exchanging messages.
    It was a comfort when I was alone in Madrid.

    And the more is in the mind, for being
    not much in the day.

    Unexpectedly, I received an urgent warning of heartbreak.
    From a genuine friend, speaking earnestly, from a true heart.
    So with sure effort, reluctant intent and new found strength,
    my jaw set by a clear and rational adult mind,
    I bedded myself onto life’s firmer path.
    True to my word, shoulders squared
    I forked away, with another’s hand and with no means back.
    And true, I gained my beloved daughters and this solid home and chair.

    So, bravely, alone once more,
    I draw courage and ask, 
    and await a reply, which time has made irrelevant.
    The autumn’s boy expects silent indifference.

    It is only a ghost that preoccupies this space.
    A curve of your hair, photographed at the mirror’s edge.

    Image: Copyright Charlotte Salt (www.instagram.com/charlotte_salt_)

    Written by

    David

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