adventures in dysthymia

Wednesday, July 13, 2016

Whispered, a poem

Whispered

Her mother leaned in and whispered,
I wish she had met you
before she married him.
It would have made no difference.

No, not even with all we shared.
Her mother passed sometime back
and I have not seen any
of our friends in years.

That, too, makes no difference.
I can’t even remember the husband’s
name, now, just the confidence
her mother once whispered.

Stephen Brooke ©2016

Not exactly an ambitious poem, nor a particularly good one, but an exercise in leaving things out. One of the great mistakes writers make is putting in too much information! 

Addendum, day or two later: slightly revised this piece. I frequently change bits after I post poems here (I consider these more or less first drafts) but usually don't come back and edit the posts. I did this time.

This, unlike many of my poems, is a completely true story. Many of my pieces have their roots in my life but don't necessarily stick to the exact facts. Be that as it may, remembering this incident gives me ideas for fiction writing to come --- this sort of thing could definitely be dropped into a novel or story, couldn't it? 

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