Is Corn Brain Food?

Is Corn Brain Food?
Is Coney Island corn-on-the-cob brain food? Dunno, but I DO know that all original content herein is copyrighted by Vincent Collazo. Namaste.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Since You Left Me--A Griever's Blog

Heather at Aviator Rink, Spring 2009
Somewhere in the first year or two of our relationship I created, through spontaneous repetition, the tradition of writing a poem or song for Heather on four occasions each year: Valentine's Day, our anniversary (which coincided with the Summer Solstice), Heather's birthday (July 10), and Winter Solstice/Christmas. I'd usually write these in the very early morning before she'd awake, and after breakfast leave it on the bed for her to find, whereupon she'd usually request that I read it to her. Each time she discovered the poem or song she'd express some amount of genuine surprise, as if I might forget or just not have one for her. "I guess when you don't write one I'll know the romance is over," she said a few years back. 

When I woke up early this past Christmas, my first without Heather, I knew that I must continue the tradition. The poems I've written for Heather are qualitatively different from my others--I do not always understand them, and can return to them as freshly as a new reader. Though I write and publish poetry, I don't consider myself a Poet--that title is a bit loftier than my efforts reach, in my estimation. Here's my 2010 Christmas poem for Heather, which I fear has too much about me and not enough of her.
 
Since You Left Me

the gaping hole
in my existence
can’t be filled
nor will my quaking, aching heart
be stilled
by daft-idyllic memories
midst haunted, frightened trees

and yet, my love
since you left me with
shards of your shattered wisdom
cutting at my innards
ought I not
be taking stock
of what your loss
amounts to?

there are living things
worse than death
though I never would’ve guessed it
Praise and Thanks and
Thanks and Praise
must wait till manifested

since you left me the usual cornucopia
of emotions
(and what is God
but a secondhand devotion
to our mutual-born utopia?)
I’ll parse and vet
till I’m fingerless
and not expect
an answer

good you, poor me
bereaved ain’t bereft
since you left me
with a mystery
I’ll possess
for eternity


for my sweet Heather, Christmas 2010
The romance will never be over.

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