On Tears

Tears is the break of my brow,
The moony tempestuous
Sitting downIn dark railyards
When to see my mother’s face
Recalling from the waking vision
I wept to understand
The trap mortality
And personal blood of earth
Which saw me in—Father father
Why hast thou forsaken me?
Mortality & unpleasure
Roam this city—
Unhappiness my middle name
I want to be saved,-
Sunk—can’t be
Won’t be
Never was made—
So retch!

by Jack Kerouac

Comments (7)

your words spoke of beauty, its frailty, in clay, of birth, creation, nativity, the vessel holding the form of life, to behold, to contain...and mold, according to lifes' continuing hold
What shall it hold? ....i think it holds all you felt while moulding it, hope it was a big vessel, lovely....smiling alana
In centuries to come it may be found whole or broken in the earth's soil to give pleasure to whoever finds it, as we today find treasures in the mud beneath our feet. A lovely creation of a poem in every way. Love and hugs Ernestine XXX
I remember the slippery feel of the clay between the two hands - the left still, providing the anchor, the guide, the other gently easing, loving the pot into shape. What a superb metaphor for the role of a loving parent from the first moment of birth to the final push from the nest. Superb poem, warm and filled with wonder. love, Allie ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥
This was wonderful to read, it hummed along so nicely, and left the impression of the clay spinning on the wheel. Very nice work. Thanks
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