On Mondays I take time to pour over poetry, both my own as well as others. I came across this one I wrote a few years back (the date and time of composition formed part of the title). It took me back to a time where my heart was restless and hurting. There was a struggle to equate the deep sense of sorrow and rejection I was feeling with the faith that was emerging. Like a glove, God’s love covered me. It didn’t however, numb the pain. Enjoy…
27th sept 08
Once I fought to stay
Now I fight to say goodbye
Not for yours but for my sake
The stake that lives
In the space I twice tried to give away
Makes the beats from my heart
Cause my world to shake
You’re broken pieces of my own weaknesses,
Constant instances of failed strengths
That I struggle to exist in,
And you’re not helping by resisting
Let me serve my King
Unless He brings you back,
I won’t budge
© Denis Adide 2008
If we ENDURE with Him
We will also REIGN with Him.
She took the rose I gave her, tied the stalk with a silk string
And hung it from her windowsill to dry;
Its petals still accented by the scent of early spring.
She smiled. “These flowers, my love, tell a lie,
For they do not have the life to which they cling,
Their crimson clothes for affection die.”
Slumped I stood, “What a reply!”,
And couldn’t tell her I’d bought the ring.
© Denis Adide 2010
In my experience so far – which I don’t think differs from any – I have been victim to the strange way in which men and women, in speaking the same language, misunderstand each other. Thinking on this pointed me toward the fears that I had – and still do have – about openly expressing how I felt to a woman. How everything they did or said affected what I was about to say. The proposal is such a story, where love – and the celebration that it should carry – is lost in the vacuum of things either unsaid, or misunderstood. It is a solemn poem that like the hidden ring, speaks of concealed emotions and thoughts lost on the threshold of commitment because of fastly fading sentiments that are as dead as the flowers. Love, more immortal than the dying plants or the fears that hamper, is sorrowfully lost in the small moments. This poem is for all the men, who like me, never reached the height of romance in their proposals. It is a word to our respective women: our actions will never fully incapsulate our sentiments, bare with us.