You Don't Own the Reaction

Once upon a time, I wrote a love poem, at least that was my intention when I put pen to paper. It was a relationship doomed from the start, but that didn't matter to me. I was truly, hopelessly smitten.  After the demise of the relationship, the poem wrote itself, a collection of snippets I wrote while I was with him. I still consider it to be some of my best work.

A friend (who happened to be his best friend) read the poem at the launch of the book that included it.  His read was a very angry one, which shocked me.  I had written with tenderness, with sadness, but definitely not with anger.  I spoke with him afterwards and asked about his interpretation.  His take on the poem was that it was written as an accusation from an unhappy lover.  Looking more analytically at the poem, I can now see where some of this came from, particularly in the different meanings of the title.  It was still hard to accept, being so thoroughly misunderstood.

I came to realize that whatever my intentions in writing something, that something is completely separate from anyone's interpretation of it.  I own the work, I do not own anyone's emotional or intellectual reaction to it.  I've actually come to enjoy when someone tells me an interpretation I had not considered.  I take it as a compliment that my work resonated with someone, however different that reaction is from the anticipated one.

Triangulation

We have invented a crude geometry

to cover our nakedness,

where arcs of arms enclose

sacred, safe spaces of trust -

yet we are neither of us good at arithmetic.

We carve fragile niches

for our momentary lapses of reason,

holding breaths and breezes from wary eyes and lips.

You tether me gently to the earth and

I teach you to fear not to dream.

We build rickety bridges

across the disparate reaches of our memories

weighing the narcotic of comfort

and the thrill of the unknown -

But that which is measured does not soothe.

We segment hours of anonymity

with stolen moments that roll back clocks and miles,

drying whiskey tears,

smoothing the creases and

lightening jaundiced, darkened snapshots.

We have not yet risen above

the tyranny of numbers;

in moments of doubt you struggle to see

a difference of age is not always

a difference of understanding.

 

I know, as you cannot yet

of the leaps of faith

that sway the pendulum

that add more sand to the glass

and stretch happiness to the horizon.