Brian Patten(7 February 1946 / Liverpool / England)
And Nothing Is Ever As You Want It To Be
- by Brian Patten64
You lose your love for her and then It is her who is lost, And then it is both who are lost, And nothing is ever as perfect as you want it to be.
In a very ordinary world A most extraordinary pain mingles with the small routines, The loss seems huge and yet Nothing can be pinned down or fully explained.
You are afraid. If you found the perfect love It would scald your hands, Rip the skin from your nerves, Cause havoc with a computered heart.
You lose your love for her and then it is her who is lost. You tried not to hurt and yet Everything you touched became a wound. You tried to mend what cannot be mended, You tried, neither foolish nor clumsy, To rescue what cannot be rescued.
You failed, And now she is elsewhere And her night and your night Are both utterly drained.
How easy it would be If love could be brought home like a lost kitten Or gathered in like strawberries, How lovely it would be; But nothing is ever as perfect as you want it to be.
- by Brian Patten52
When I think of her sparkling face And of her body that rocked this way and that, When I think of her laughter, Her jubilance that filled me, It's a wonder I'm not gone mad.
She is away and I cannot do what I want. Other faces pale when I get close. She is away and I cannot breathe her in.
The space her leaving has created I have attempted to fill With bodies that numbed upon touching, Among them I expected her opposite, And found only forgeries.
Her wholeness I know to be a fiction of my making, Still I cannot dismiss the longing for her; It is a craving for sensation new flesh Cannot wholly calm or cancel, It is perhaps for more than her.
At night above the parks the stars are swarming. The streets are thick with nostalgia; I move through senseless routine and insensitive chatter As if her going did not matter. She is away and I cannot breathe her in. I am ill simply through wanting her.
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