Othello's Deathbed Curse-Redux

I originally wrote this poem after a painful breakup some years ago...in light of recent events in my life, it's amazing how this still holds up.



Loved too well—
Nay, accuse me not.
For I have loved enough
And then some;
But never too well.
For my heart,
Blinded by love,
Fails at discernment—‘tis true.
For this crime,
I am most guilty certain;
Punish me most severe.
For the severest penalty
Cannot equal the pains I’ve suffered
Or loves unrequited;
Nor match the bitter pill
Or sourest medicine
Of unwarranted affection
Or unmerited scorn.

Oh yes, curse the day—
Love made its acquaintance
Of me,
Only to make me a fool;
Or worser yet,
A wretched pawn
With wounded ego
And battered heart.

Oh yes, curse the day
I first set eyes on that
Which is called woman
And felt the first spark of desire,
Only to have it snuffed out
By unrecognized eye
Or unreturned affection.
Oh yes, curse the day
And again, I say, curse,
With ever-fervent zeal,
The day, not that I was born,
But that I have not died,
From Cupid’s arrows flung;
Only to have their mission aborted,
Their intent gone astray,
Leaving me naked and ashamed,
Empty of all feeling,
Numb,
Having drained the well of tears dry.

Loved too well, nay,
I have loved well enough,
Only to be haunted time
And time again.
Nay, I repeat the aforementioned curse.
Curse, I say,
Love and all its vile affectations
Or affections, if you will,
Or not, it matters none.

Curse, my already bleeding heart,
For availing itself to be made vulnerable;
Made susceptible to love’s deceits
And woman’s charms;
I say, curse the woman,
The weaker sex indeed!
Only in stopping short of inflicting pain
Rather with dagger sharp or poison sweet
Or bullet swift;
Than with the pains of scorn or rejection—
Which, in contrast, last the longer
And inflict not death.
Yes, all of this and more,
I say, curse,
And I say it again,
With all that is within me,
Curse!

© Joseph Powell

Poetry Man-The Book

Poetry Man-the book-is now available for purchase, both in print(Lulu.com) and E-book(Lulu.com, Barnes & Noble NOOK store, and the Apple IBookstore)versions. 30 poems conveying the heart of the poet. Whichever format you choose, get your copy now. You will not be disappointed. Thank you for your support.

Just Like Pagliacci Did--A New Poem

I am crying private tears--
apparently,
a man is not supposed to cry in public,
'it's not manly',
they say;
well, I say,
my tears are more real
than anything you can ever imagine;

my tears,
are tiny pieces of my soul,
yearning to break free,
from inflicted damage
and emotional turmoil;

responses to
being told,
a life with me
is not worth living;

they're all I have to offer
to express spiritual pain,
because uncontrolled rage
is also not acceptable
in polite society;
and laughter,
when it does come,
only masks it for a time--
like a clown
who thought he knew
what love was,
and found it more elusive
than the face of God.

So,
I will cry my tears
as they come,
and I will write my words
because that is what I do,
knowing that I'm as much a man
as any,
and that love
is an unwinnable game,
best left to those
who can stay in it
or are allowed to;
but for me,
I'm drawing up the bridge
surrounding my heart,
buttressing the fortress,
so that I can face
the inevitably rising
sun
in guarded peace.

© 2012 Joseph Powell

somewhere

somewhere,
in the distance,
a mournful sax is wailing;
somewhere,
I hear a baby crying
its little heart out;
somewhere,
a police siren
is blaring down
a dark and lonely street;
somewhere,
a woman is screaming
in orgasmic ecstasy;
somewhere,
a man is pleading
for his life;
somewhere,
a preacher
is channeling God's voice;
somewhere,
a mother
is yelling at her children;
somewhere,
a poet
is about to take the stage,
to loudly proclaim
the words of this poem.

© 2012 Joseph Powell