Vox Populi
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Michael Simms: Imperfect
My native tongue doesn’t allow
the imperfect tense, so it’s difficult
to say how something might used
to happen but no more. Elizabeth
used to walk among these trees.
She used to walk among these trees
but doesn’t anymore. Elizabeth
is no more though she used to be.
My sister doesn’t anymore but she used
to walk among these trees because
she used to be happy but only
for a short while before she descended
to despair. Elizabeth we could say
used to walk among these trees
because they made her happy.
Elizabeth used to be but no more
~~~
Copyright 2023 Michael Simms. From Strange Meadowlark (Ragged Sky 2023). First published in Poem-A-Day by Academy of American Poets
Michael Simms is the founding editor of Vox Populi and the Founding Editor Emeritus of Autumn House Press.
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A remarkable piece. I admire all the voices in your poems and how what you do is an invitation for your audience always to walk with you.
Many hats–so moving is this piece. In gratitude mode for what you do
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Thank you, Rosaly!
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What to say about this “imperfect” poem? I love it. 💔
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Thanks, Lisa!
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Michael:
What a perfect dispersion of word and meaning throughout the body of this poem! We sold and loaded our calves yesterday morning, started before daybreak, so I couldn’t sit down and read this until this morning.
It is wonderfully said and you should be proud.
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Thanks, Sean. Your praise means everything to me.
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This beautiful painful piece of life in words will accompany me, thank you Michael,
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Thank you, Noelle!
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How terribly sad, how poignantly memorable.
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Thanks, Mandy!
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I found this poem very moving.
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Thank you, Lori.
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Thank you for this wonderful poem.
XO Carolyn
Sent from my iPad
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Thanks, Carolyn!
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A moving wail for all who no longer walk among these trees, the empty labyrinth, echoing rooms. Thank you.
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You’ve captured the experience of the poem perfectly, Barbara. Thank you!
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Moving. So like birdsong in its simplicity.
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Thanks, Robbi. “Like birdsong” is the highest compliment to a poet, I think.
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Such restraint in this poignant lamentation — Elizabeth now in our memory too, we who read you with gratitude and care. You used to love her, and we do too, love her as you still do. Still, still, today…
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Thank you so much, Laure-Anne. My friend Naomi described this poem as ‘one long sustained note.’ I think of it as a Kyrie, a wail of grief.
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This was very helpful to me, personally. My wife died seven years ago, and the grief process was at first exactly what the first stanza said. She (and I) walked under the trees. Then we didn’t. And the whole process seemed IMPERFECT. The second stanza paralleled my mother’s Alzheimers. She no longer walked under trees either. Reading this poem encapsulates the grief process for many of us, with our lack of an imperfect tense.
But the poem heals too. It reminds me that the last word wife Pam said to me was flowers, and amidst the overwhelming imperfection of her passing, flowers will always, like the trees she walked under, still be there for me. Until my journey, like the poem, comes out into the empty space surrounding lived life again. But changed by the passage. Sadness and hope. And thanks.
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What a beautiful response to the poem, Jim. Thank you. Last words are important. The last thing my sister said to me before killing herself was “I love you” and I said the same thing to her. We hadn’t talked in over a year because of a stupid prideful falling out, largely my fault. When she called we talked about old times and laughed a lot. I had no idea she was saying goodbye.
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This is heartbreaking.
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Thanks, Arlene.
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Lovely poem.
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Thank you, Jason. I appreciate you and your work.
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One of my favorites from that exquisite collection, written with the “formal feeling” that comes after “great pain.” Lovely and sorrowful.
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Thanks so much, Richard. I admire your prose and poetry, so your praise means a great deal to me.
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What a lovely thing to say, George. Thank you.
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So you wonder why technique in poetry is so important? Well, wonder no more. Read this poem and you will have all the anser you need!
George
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