"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you." - Maya Angelou
I was an aspiring poet in my last few years of high school when I found Maya Angelou. One of my Grade 11 or 12 English assignments was to present a project on a writer, referencing some of their works, discussing their life, etc. I vaguely remember falling into Angelou's work through a list of poets a teacher had given me, and that was that: I created a sort of fanzine dedicated to the woman who speaks from her soul.
While I have many prayers to leave at the altar in perpetual adoration of Angelou's work - and there are more than a few I think Mom would have identified with - I chose the following poem, 'When You Come,' because it made me think of the moments where my mother seems to appear to me in some sort of spiritual form. You know when you can just feel a presence near you, or feel a sort of warmth in your heart? I get that, and I like to think it's my mom.
Apparently, this poem is actually meant to be about a sort of sensual reawakening, driven by the reappearance of a past love. I really like that, though I'm part of the school of thought that prefers poetry to be a little more open to personal application and interpretation. Keeping in mind that I originally planned to use this poem for my post last week, it seemed rather fitting, and I think Mom would have appreciated it - albeit, rather wistfully. What do you think?
When You Come
When you come to me, unbidden,
Beckoning me
To long-ago rooms,
Where memories lie.
Offering me, as to a child, an attic,
Gatherings of days too few.
Baubles of stolen kisses.
Trinkets of borrowed loves.
Trunks of secret words,
I CRY.
So, dear Reader, need I say more?
Apparently, this poem is actually meant to be about a sort of sensual reawakening, driven by the reappearance of a past love. I really like that, though I'm part of the school of thought that prefers poetry to be a little more open to personal application and interpretation. Keeping in mind that I originally planned to use this poem for my post last week, it seemed rather fitting, and I think Mom would have appreciated it - albeit, rather wistfully. What do you think?
When You Come
When you come to me, unbidden,
Beckoning me
To long-ago rooms,
Where memories lie.
Offering me, as to a child, an attic,
Gatherings of days too few.
Baubles of stolen kisses.
Trinkets of borrowed loves.
Trunks of secret words,
I CRY.
So, dear Reader, need I say more?