Several months ago, a lovely collection came through the post for me. I wasn’t sure what to expect — although it goes without saying that the T. S. Elliot prizewinning poet is more than just talented at this word thing. But as I’ve revisited this collection over and over again in the past few months, I cannot express how much it has spoken to and reached places in me that I wasn’t expecting.
Vuong’s Night Sky With Exit Woundshas been reviewed far and wide by far more qualified people than me so I really feel there’s little I could add to what has been said, other than to say…
This collection of poetry grips the heart with a firm grasp and leads you, with a gentleness that’s all the more noticeable because of the skill employed, into a place where all of your heart is invested. I also highly recommend listening to the author read some of his poetry. It is worth every penny and more besides (buy one for a friend!) and it’s truly something special.
Today’s daily dose of poetry is a little…necessary. For those moments when someone just pushes you right over the edge, ‘Grief, Not Guilt’ by the incredible Jeanann Verlee has a classy insult for every conceivable moment! Read it in full…then dive right into her body of work — trust us, it’s just as wonderful!
Grief, Not Guilt (Jeanann Verlee)
I wish you a tongue scalded by tea.
A hangover. Burnt toast. Stubbed toes. A lost job.
I wish you weeping in the shower. Salt in the sugar bowl.
A wishlist of sorrows. Grief, not guilt.
Hole in your favorite coat. Stain on the good suit.
Arthritis for your joints. A broken guitar string at every show.
I wish each breath a little harder. Each workday
an hour longer. I wish your heart a thousand breaks.
All your sports teams, bottom rank. I wish your friends
go quiet. The leaves brown above your head.
A thunderstorm every morning. Nothing but pearls
when you shop for her diamond. I wish you bad knees,
a sore back. Empty sheets. A ghost to haunt your house.
A tub brimming with mud. Closet stuffed with too-small shoes.
Flat beer. Sour milk. Weak coffee. I wish you
flat tires, soggy pasta, a tax audit to fail.
Bent forks, dull knives. A hangnail for every finger.
I wish you a room wallpapered with my photographs.
A chamber filled with empty bassinets.