In memoriam

Touched by John Naughton’s writing about memories of his deceased wife, Sue, and quoting this poem by Peter Porter:
The words and faces proper to
My misery are private–you
Would never share your heart with those
Whose only talent’s to suppose,
Nor from your final childish bed
Raise a remote confessing head —
The channels of our lives are blocked,
The hand is stopped upon the clock,
No one can say why hearts will break
And marriages are all opaque:
A map of loss, some posted cards,
The living house reduced to shards,
The abstract hell of memory,
The pointlessness of poetry–
These are the instances which tell
Of something which I know full well,
I owe a death to you–one day
The time will come for me to pay
When your slim shape from photographs
Stands at my door and gently asks
If I have any work to do
Or will I come to bed with you.

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  1. Cecilia McCormack says:

    Do you have any idea what this part means?
    The words and faces proper to
    My misery are private–you
    Would never share your heart with those
    Whose only talent’s to suppose,
    Nor from your final childish bed
    Raise a remote confessing head —
    I don’t understand it properly, though i understand the rest of the poem, this bit stuffs me up.

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