I am fortunate
If I can find two gloves now
One left and one right
The other problem
My hands are misshapen too
Ladies’ gloves might not fit me.
I can be a man
If I decide I want to be
There! I wear your gloves now.
But I prefer scarves
Made for women, with flowers
Embroidery, silk, cashmere.
My taste is quite good
I know I like your image
You stand on the bridge in Prague
In Wenceslaus Square
The orchestra played Ma Vlast
Children’s coloured drawings are
Butterflies for God
He died too with them
So we have no floor to stand on
I forgot I am.
I was lost somewhere other
How I stand on air.
As I rise enriched from deeps of grief
I feel alone as if my old world’s gone
Though trees still flaunt their newborn coats of leaves
The passing of the years, our life seems brief
Oh, love, oh death, oh fear, oh lost my own
Must I retreat from darker depths of grief?
What new space must you and I conceive?
How shall I live where my love was undone
While trees will haunt with summers of green leaves
Our latent wishes, frozen, must deceive
Oh, Freudian world, oh, Foucault, oh Lacan
Must I leave the holy depths of grief?
Like the flowers, most die on graves of grief
Oh, Shakespeare, elegaic, oh John Donne
See trees still image life in shining leaves
Misfortune strikes, still love and heart shall win
As we cling to life with threads so thin
When we rise enriched from depths of grief
The trees delight in mantels of green leaf
- 1.1 (of things) be different.
‘the party’s views were apt to discord with those of the leading members of the government’
Middle English: from Old French descord (noun), descorder (verb), from Latin discordare, from discors ‘discordant’, from dis- (expressing negation, reversal) + cor, cord- ‘heart’.