My hands still recall what the rest of me forgets— bodies beneath the sheets, the phantom of warmth, the spot where your head used to rest on the pillow. My body is an archive of the gestures written in it: my palms on your breasts, how you turned to face me before our lips touched I talk of the heart but mean the pulse in my wrist. I speak of you but mean the silence that fills every part of my body Every part of me still aches in the name of the whole.
In these days of perfect lives for whatever social people are performing, there is a lack of understanding that time doesn't heal all wounds, or at least, not completely. When someone else understands or shares the experience, it's so helpful.
I learn something new on Substack every day, and today was no exception. I looked at this poem and said to myself, what does “synedoche” mean? So I looked it up and found that it’s a figure of speech in which a part of something is used to represent the whole, and immediately the first two lines had their perfect context:
“My hands still recall
what the rest of me forgets”
Then the poem proceeds from there, with the speaker naming individual gestures and aching body parts that now represent a whole lost relationship, in a work of sublime symmetry:
Thank you, Martin, for reading and commenting. Like “Enjambment,” published earlier this month, synecdoche is another figure of speech or literary device that I wanted to treat in a poem. I also have poems planned for simile and metaphor, which I’ll get around to posting sometime soon.
Good morning, C.J., and thank you for reading and commenting. Loss of any kind is bound to cause grief or discomfort or pain, but loss of love or loss of a loved one sort of bruises the soul. Of course, the bruise may fade, only to be replaced by a dull ache that lingers on just below the skin.
You’re welcome, Paul. Your observation is so true. Any loss of a loved one is very much like a bruise that fades in time. But like you said, the ache is there forever.
Paul’s poem reads like a small Mass of the body, where the hands become monks keeping vigil over what love once consecrated. Memory rises in it like incense—quiet, persistent—filling the ribs with a presence that refuses to fade. The poem understands that the sacred lives in gestures, that tenderness is a kind of sacrament, and that without it, the flesh is stripped of its holiness. In a few spare strokes, he gives us a liturgy of what the body remembers long after the soul has tried to forget.
We try our best to live with loss, Jo-Ann. In my own life, I think that death and loss of love are running neck and neck when it comes to the kind of deep emotional ache that loss causes. I’m probably not alone.
I understand and have lost so many friends from the ages 37-69 and all ages in between. But I cannot imagine losing a partner. My daughter lost her husband at 46, and they were married 16 years, so sad.
Thanks for sharing this poem, @Keifer Allan
Thank you, @Abigail George, for sharing this poem.
Thanks for this restack, @Portia
Thank you for your gorgeous poem, Paul.
Thanks to @Blue Citizen 77 and Diane for sharing this poem 💙💙
Thanks for sharing this poem, @Earl Nobdy. Can’t say I like the voiceover, though. I must have pressed a wrong button somewhere…
Paul, I can feel every word like they are mine. You have been able to give loving grief new words.
I consider that high praise, Jay. Thank you!
Thank you. Well said, and I agree. I was going to comment something similar, but yours is really perfect.
High praise, indeed, Alison. Thank you for reading and commenting, and for your continued support!
In these days of perfect lives for whatever social people are performing, there is a lack of understanding that time doesn't heal all wounds, or at least, not completely. When someone else understands or shares the experience, it's so helpful.
Alison, thank you, your words speak to the universality of feelings. We are never alone in them, aren’t we?
I learn something new on Substack every day, and today was no exception. I looked at this poem and said to myself, what does “synedoche” mean? So I looked it up and found that it’s a figure of speech in which a part of something is used to represent the whole, and immediately the first two lines had their perfect context:
“My hands still recall
what the rest of me forgets”
Then the poem proceeds from there, with the speaker naming individual gestures and aching body parts that now represent a whole lost relationship, in a work of sublime symmetry:
“Every part of me still aches
in the name of the whole.”
Thank you, Martin, for reading and commenting. Like “Enjambment,” published earlier this month, synecdoche is another figure of speech or literary device that I wanted to treat in a poem. I also have poems planned for simile and metaphor, which I’ll get around to posting sometime soon.
I liked this poem and I liked "Enjambment" also, so I look forward to reading and commenting on the other two in due course.
The pulse is steady.
Then quickens.
The indention is is filled
With warm radiation
Thank you, Richbee. Your comment is a most welcome sign of warmth, perhaps even healing. 🙏😊
Makes up for yesterdays
Dictionary spelling. Not in NY.
I missed the 'C" in posting this. Thank you, Richbee--I've corrected it.
Synecdoche ?
Schenectady?
A beautiful poem about the memory of loving. That's an emotion that runs deep, something you write about so well, Paul. A pleasure, as always.
Good morning, C.J., and thank you for reading and commenting. Loss of any kind is bound to cause grief or discomfort or pain, but loss of love or loss of a loved one sort of bruises the soul. Of course, the bruise may fade, only to be replaced by a dull ache that lingers on just below the skin.
You’re welcome, Paul. Your observation is so true. Any loss of a loved one is very much like a bruise that fades in time. But like you said, the ache is there forever.
I feel the ache Paul, beautiful poem. 💖
Thank you, Simone.
Paul’s poem reads like a small Mass of the body, where the hands become monks keeping vigil over what love once consecrated. Memory rises in it like incense—quiet, persistent—filling the ribs with a presence that refuses to fade. The poem understands that the sacred lives in gestures, that tenderness is a kind of sacrament, and that without it, the flesh is stripped of its holiness. In a few spare strokes, he gives us a liturgy of what the body remembers long after the soul has tried to forget.
—Simply Richard
I think that’s it, Richard—just so.
Exquisite pain reaches the deepest.
So does love, Patris.
absolutely true, Paul..
😓
Here’s a 🌻to chase away any ache my poem caused. 😊
🥲
We try our best to live with loss, Jo-Ann. In my own life, I think that death and loss of love are running neck and neck when it comes to the kind of deep emotional ache that loss causes. I’m probably not alone.
I understand and have lost so many friends from the ages 37-69 and all ages in between. But I cannot imagine losing a partner. My daughter lost her husband at 46, and they were married 16 years, so sad.
This is beautiful, Paul!
Good Wednesday, Rea, and thank you!
Sensual!
Thank you, Stanley