Author's Note
I wrote this poem in December, about a month after my husband passed away, just after I had scattered his ashes into the ocean east of our home.
I initially sent it to Rattle, but three months later, they declined it. I had almost forgotten about it, but now I want to share it with the world.
.
A Grey Mourning
The morning’s foggy haze so grey
I hear the scream of hungry hawks
Raindrops gather on opaque hay
The morningś foggy haze so grey
.
Remembering that you’re away
Stolen by blackness - no one talks
The morning’s foggy haze so grey
I hear the scream of hungry hawks.
About the Creator
Henrik Hageland
A poet, a writer of feelings and hope. A Dane and inhibitant of the Earth thinking about what is to come.
A good story told or invented. Human all the way through.
Want to know more? Visit Substack , my YouTube Channel or TikTok.
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More stories from Henrik Hageland and writers in Poets and other communities.
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanova2 days ago in Poets
The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
By Paul Stewart4 days ago in Fiction
Comments (11)
I feel honored that you sent me this long ago and to be able to read it. Rattle really has bad taste in poets. They denied me a few times. This is wonderful, my dear friend! <3
Aww, Henrik, a poignant sad poem for your love who is gone.
This is a beautiful poem, sad and beautiful.
Your emotions shine through. Nicely penned sorry it was rejected.
I'm so sorry they rejected your poem. It was so poignant and emotional. I loved it!
I'm so sorry they rejected your poem. It was so poignant and emotional. I loved it!
Written with your heart, Henrik. Rattle is very tough, I have submitted over 10 poems to them, and nothing. At least they reply and let you know.
Gorgeous work! Sorry again 4 your loss!
Can totally feel your grief. Heartbreaking. It’s a beautiful photo too.
This poem is so heartfelt and touching. The repetition of the haze so grey fills the reader with a deep sense of feeling lost in the grief. The last line "I hear the scream of hungry hawks" give the sense that one feels as if they might be consumed and is such a powerful expression of the poets heartbreak. I felt this poem deeply and am so glad you shared it here with the world. My heart hopes that you will know sunshine again through all of that foggy haze. Deepest and most sincere condolences.
Sad words, beautifully expressed