Penelope Connor — ink girl poet
the little tea-pot sprouted
how fragrant the blossoms
a woman flew through the air
her blue eyes were beautiful
the boy kissed her hand
in a beautiful garden
ABOUT:
This poem was cut from a section of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Elder-Tree Mother, in the Fairy Tale Blackout Games shown below:
All day she sat on her fear.
In the evening, she saw a crack in the shell.
With hope, she went to sleep.
When she woke with first light,
She felt something stir.
There she moved — a bird.
There was no denying,
it was herself.
She was strong.
ABOUT: This poem was cut from a section of Andrew Lang’s The Ugly Duckling, in the Fairy Tales Blackout Games shown below:
The moment we begin to seek love, love begins to seek us.
And to save us.
-Paulo Coelho
For five years, I invested. I loved, I learned, I grew. I was patient, grateful, open. I loved. I gave my energy, my time, and my heart to a lifetime relationship with a man who loved me. I believe he did, love me. I still believe he does.
He also loved another. So did I. We tried, in our brokenness, to build a triad that fit the three of us. The truth is, though he and I had known each other longer, their relationship was stronger. They built a life together that included each other, every single day. I was part of that life, but not in person, not in the day to day living; it wasn’t possible, or desired. The transition to triad, while sorting out three different couple relationships, was hard. It was really hard. In a year of deaths and tragedies, of stresses and changes in jobs, homes, and plans for the future, we didn’t do a great job of communicating. We didn’t talk often enough about how that triad should work, or how the individual relationships should work. We argued. We cried. We tried. We really, really tried.
We failed.
She gave up first… abandoned the triad and me, in her efforts to salvage them. He fought for months, to find a way to make us fit… him and me, our love. Then he gave in.
The last time we talked about us, he asked for time… to get his head in a good place… to mourn the loss of what he’s hoped for, what he was building his life around before she gave up… and then we could talk about starting over, building something different, something less…
His life is busy, with wedding plans, life changes… with the busy that all our lives demand. My life is busy, with my nesting partner, my family, my own stressful life demands. But my heart is lonely, broken. I feel abandoned, rejected, and penniless in terms of a five year investment of my heart into him, while also, still grieving a failed two year attempt at a relationship with her. I feel dumped.
My relationship philosophy is that if I really love someone, and their life changes, I don’t close a door. I leave it open, and wish them well, hoping they find happiness. Maybe, at some point, he will discover there’s room for me. Maybe he never will. It’s the only thing I can do, in light of what he’s chosen to do in regard to the life we’ve built together, and now cannot have.
So, I grieve. I move on. I may, or may not, have a promising new relationship to focus on. Truth is, that’s not really going anywhere right now. His busy life demands more than he can give, and there’s no room for me, today. Maybe someday that will change. I hope. All I really want is to love someone, deeply, fully. To be understood as a polyamorous being, and loved for it, not in spite of it. I want more than this, and I’m afraid that the journey to find it… begun again, after five long years, will be hard. I may not be so lucky as I have been.
I wonder, as I’m looking… I’ve been looking, for a very long time… is love really also looking for me?
Eyes withdrawn she sat meditating,
a few minutes with her heart.
A mind like hers, once open,
touched– admitted —
acknowledged the truth.
Love was dreadfully increased by hope.
It darted through her, with speed.
ABOUT:
This poem was cut from a section of Jane Austen’s Emma, in the Classic Lit Blackout Games shown below:
Are you upset little friend? Have you been lying awake worrying? Well, don’t worry…I’m here. The flood waters will recede, the famine will end, the sun will shine tomorrow, and I will always be here to take care of you. –Charles M. Schulz
It’s often just enough to be with someone. I don’t need to touch them. Not even talk. A feeling passes between you both. You’re not alone. –Marilyn Monroe
Yes, I am grieving, feeling very alone in my fight to sift through the rubble and find something to salvage in a relationship where love may be the only thing still alive. Even now, I am strengthened by others who love me. Countless friends reached out to me yesterday to say it — with words, with hugs and distractions, to bring a smile to my face.
I am not alone.
Both my new love and my husband called, taking time from busy days to remind me, this is not the last chapter of my story. It is only a break, not a death knell.
I am not alone.
Even the man with whom so much is changing, who grieves with me over what is lost, reminds me that I am loved and not forgotten.
I am not alone.
Yesterday, grief soaked me and then wrung me out like a dish rag; but love rinsed the worst of sorrow from me, gently laid me out to dry, and warmed me with a reminder.
I am not alone.
Today I am stronger, because of love. There is no guarantee that grief will not overwhelm me again. But for now I know that I can face the sorrow. I can let it test my limits. I can give myself a break when it’s too hard, and with the love of others, I will find my way to happy once again.
Thank you everyone, for not leaving me alone.
“Grief is a most peculiar thing; we’re so helpless in the face of it. It’s like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it.”
― Arthur Golden, Memoirs of a Geisha
“Life Lesson 3: You can’t rush grief. It has its own timetable. All you can do is make sure there are lots of soft places around — beds, pillows, arms, laps.”
― Patti Davis, Two Cats and the Woman They Own: or Lessons I Learned from My Cats
Even in this place of limbo, not knowing what can be saved, I know what has been irretrievably lost. I know that parts of me are wounded and will be forever scarred, though I do not know the full extent of our injuries, yet. He is still grieving, as I am grieving, those lost things. And so, we cannot yet come back to sort through the rubble, and figure out what we might salvage. Near silence is all we can manage today.
I cannot write, cannot think clearly, cannot keep the tears at bay. Grief for what has died consumes me, and though I force myself out of bed in the mornings, eat healthy meals, drink plenty of water, do some yoga and read to encourage my writing — the window of grief flings open wide and I am wracked with pain, shivering with the freezing cold. Soon blinded by tears, I am searching for soft places to fall.
There are those who hold my hands, offer hugs, whisper in the darkness, words of love and support. I am not alone. This I know. My husband is faithful by my side, calling to double-check, whether I need anything from the grocery store, making me hot tea, offering me a blanket and pillows, holding me silently as I cry. My new love reaches out to me from his own chaos, assures me that I am in his heart, that he will stay beside me until joy replaces sorrow, whispers words of hope for love not yet dead but so very, deeply wounded.
And neither of them speaks a negative or judgmental word. Instead they bring consolation. Both acknowledge his humanity, my humanity — and the difficulty of transition when love is still strong, and painful. They honor him. They honor me. I am so very blessed.
Today I’ve done what I could to be healthy. I have exhausted myself with this business of living, and will soon retire to my bed. I’ll hide beneath the covers, and soak my heart in tears. Soon, someone who loves me will come to comfort, to join their heart to mine, and I will breathe in their strength. I will be gentle with myself, and rest until this day is done.
Tomorrow, the distant sun will still rise, and the cold wind of grief will blow.
I will survive.
ABOUT:
Image Credit: http://clubecandoca.com.br/images/sad-girl-crying-alone-black-and-white
“But as I lay there, it only seemed like silence filling my ears. And the thing was, it was so freaking loud.” ― Sarah Dessen, Just Listen
———-
ABOUT:
She would be strong
and she would
free her passions
and taste of pleasures.
A woman
once inflexible
against her weakness
will by a string,
flutter in every wind;
always some desire
draws her on.
ABOUT:
This poem was cut from a section of Gustave Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, in the Classic Lit Blackout Games shown below:
Pen's Ink 
