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Regret
The rivulets, the patterns in the glass,
the dots of rain that race down to the sill,
the treacle speed of days that somehow pass,
she thinks will kill her, but they never will.
It wasn’t all her fault, she tells herself,
too late to change a single thing she’s done.
She tries to put the past upon the shelf.
Some days she does. Some days, she thinks she’s won
the fight against the creeping pain of loss
she caused herself. See, that’s the part that kills.
If only she had never tried to cross
that bridge, to ride that horse into the hills.
The rain continues on toward the ground.
Regret weighs nothing, yet can’t be put down.
.
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Roundelay
I take my mother’s thoughts, and melt them down,
build edifices of the recast steel
I group the buildings in a little town
fix walkways like the spokes within a wheel.
Please, take this vital fact and write it down:
my mother’s thoughts are true, but they’re not real.
I group the buildings in a little town
fix walkways like the spokes within a wheel,
construct some beams and bridges all around.
decide now what to hide or to reveal.
Please, take this vital fact and write it down:
my mother’s dreams are true, but they’re not real.
Construct some beams and bridges all around,
decide now what to hide or to reveal,
place pierblocks so my meaning doesn’t drown,
but warning bells fade out before they peal.
Please, take this vital fact and write it down:
my mother’s fears are true, but they’re not real.
Place pierblocks so my meaning doesn’t drown,
and warning bells fade out before they peal.
This city that I’ve blessed as sacred ground
was never meant to tell me how to feel.
Please, take this vital fact and write it down:
my mother’s thoughts are true, but they’re not real.
.
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Serene Vannoy’s poems have been published in journals in the United States and Canada. She writes from her adobe cottage in the mountains of New Mexico and realizes how affected that sounds. She does it anyway.
The thought of your cottage in the mountain is lovely and so are your poems. Regret as a sonnet is very moving and your rondelay is great.
Your poems are lovely Serene, as is your name. Loved, “The treacle speed of days that somehow last”. Thank you. I enjoyed these very much.
“Regret” is a poem perfectly portraying sentiments we all seem to have for a decision or group of them made in our lives. It inhabits the back of our minds as we grow older concerning bridges crossed or not crossed, riding off or not into the hills, or taking or failing to take a path that we believe would have made our lives better and more complete. “Roundelay” is an elegant depiction of the thoughts, dreams, and fears of our mothers that we remember and how we tend to relate to them on our own terms. I enjoyed both of them.
Some very quotable quotes in your poetry, Serene. ‘Regret weighs nothing, yet can’t be put down’, was awesome.
The final line in every stanza of ‘Roundelay’ was also very poignant and emphasised the message.
Thanks for two wonderful reads.
“Regret” has enough intrigue to launch a murder mystery that, like the regret you describe, can’t be put down.
These are both very poignant subjects, exquisitely woven together. I hope we see more of your work here.
“Regret” is an especially beautiful sonnet, that repays several readings to connect images and thoughts. The ordinary but restrained diction achieves a tone of refinement by focusing on the feeling of regret, not on any specific causes or effects.
“Roundelay”‘s repetitions create distance, recognizing and refashioning the mother’s contributions to the speaker’s words, but disowning them even while sacralizing them.
Sophisticated technique in both poems, relying on mastery of meter and line.
These are very enjoyable poems which feature enough imagery and mystery to engage the imagination, but do not force any foregone conclusions or feelings on the reader. Great job.
“Regret” is a haunting sonnet. “Treacle” to me is a literary word. (Even molasses is something more of books than most people’s reality these days.) It makes me think of Alice’s treacle well. And it’s nice how it chimes with “trickle” so you can have that too, without saying it.
A woman watching rain on and through a window is an inherently beautiful and poetic thing. Then thought gallops to the bridge, the hills. And the beauty is balanced by the persistent gnaw of sorrow. Which ultimately makes it more beautiful.
Powerful, aching, paradoxical final line.
“Regret” is a sonnet that strikes a chord with anyone who has experienced those “what if?” moments. And how true that we cause most of our pain ourselves. Well written Serene.