Wednesday, 9 April 2014

8. What Takes Work

I am willing to strive for the things that take struggle
teaching honour to foxes or signing to chimps.

It takes years to paint bridges or perfect a soufflé
but strive for the struggle and you'll catch a glimpse

of the purpose we stack in the shelves of our person
the reasons we tread through the woods in the night—

it is doing that makes us become whole as creatures;
it is practice and action, completing the rite.

Though holiness lies in the sweet repetition
of a task done until it is lodged in the bone

there are things that take toil; there are wild flights of pleasure,
and you shouldn't keep striving when you should have flown.

I spoke to a mystic about my heart's beating
“It's so hard,” I told her, “But I'll make it work.

I know that the best things take effort and trouble—”
then the night nudged the moon; both started to smirk.

“My dear,” said the mystic, “it's all your decision,”
(she glared at the moon while the moon blamed the breeze)

“pick that path—the striving—of course it's an option,
but know there's no cheating in choosing the ease.”

Her words hit a place I kept lodged far inside me:
a deep heart vibration; a whole body hum.

When trying is tricky you look to the outcome.
But if each part is painful, then what of the sum?

I'd eaten the cake that said: love is a battle
it's not always easy, you might have to chew.


I'd forgot the feeling of breathless excitement.
All giddy and tipsy—a heart set askew.

These days I am wiser and more effervescent,
I gallop my feelings and leap on a whim.

My kisses are waltzers, my heart is a fairground,
and I try for my passions. I don't try for him.

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