Love’s Whipping Boy
Hellos are kinder than goodbyes,
although goodbyes are in them.
The death of couples
is the closing of the door
between them
from one side
and/or the other.
Half a couple talks
to him or herself
afterwards at first
in an awkward way
just to stay in practice
and hold the void at bay.
Silence is a major god
sometimes at war with solitude.
"I loved you" is hard to say,
a concession that it’s over.
It was always hard to hear.
“Who loved whom?”, the silence asks.
The myths of muteness
lie deep as broken bone,
set without a proper cast
by surgeon with less skill
than rusty time,
suturing with promises
which tend to come undone,
hobbling one content to walk,
but not dance again,
having slipped on broken ice.
The persevering heart,
love’s whipping boy
or girl, as the case may be,
one of the softest parts of us,
this boneless muscle,
as vulnerable as we let it be
to sucker-punch and perfidy,
what can be done to heal it
from the double brunt
of offense and injury?
What salve, what balm
would comfort and relieve it,
not just this time,
but also in the longer later?
To mend it, should one
marinate with love
to ease and soften
or pickle it in brine,
to tan it into leather,
toughen into shield?
Ossification
is the choice of some,
for, like vasectomy,
it can sometimes be reversed.
Those who’ve paddled
to the bitter end
of Love’s one-way Tunnel
may choose petrifaction,
preferring stone to bone.
Let’s linger with the heart,
for it has stuck with us,
to comfort if not heal it.
It sorely needs repair,
but can’t afford to rest
or worse, just stop.
Quiet harmony can be restored
by a simple tune-up
following eviction:
time to throw the squatter out,
due process’s time has come.
The volume now turned up,
the message is quite clear,
the sheriff’s at the door
where, although it’s mine,
he’s not serving me.
Why is it,
when we’re wounded,
shot in the back or heart,
we tend to take the blame
when the shouting’s done
and the silence claims us?
I thought I was receiver,
but am transmitter, too,
donor and donee
of contaminated blood.
As actor,
I must play all the roles
because I am the playwright
and director, too.
Here on the stage
what have I been, but target
for an audience of one?
What is it that I’ve done,
what crime?
What is the punishment,
for crimes of self on self?
Whatever crime,
I can’t throw the first stone,
and will not hurl the last.
I’ve done the time.
Parole, probation, pardon,
amnesty, whatever . . .
Escape,
when I release myself
I’m free.
Edward and his Whipping Boy (ca. 1545)
The Whipping Boy -- Petr Sís
Hellos are kinder than goodbyes,
although goodbyes are in them.
The death of couples
is the closing of the door
between them
from one side
and/or the other.
Half a couple talks
to him or herself
afterwards at first
in an awkward way
just to stay in practice
and hold the void at bay.
Silence is a major god
sometimes at war with solitude.
"I loved you" is hard to say,
a concession that it’s over.
It was always hard to hear.
“Who loved whom?”, the silence asks.
The myths of muteness
lie deep as broken bone,
set without a proper cast
by surgeon with less skill
than rusty time,
suturing with promises
which tend to come undone,
hobbling one content to walk,
but not dance again,
having slipped on broken ice.
The persevering heart,
love’s whipping boy
or girl, as the case may be,
one of the softest parts of us,
this boneless muscle,
as vulnerable as we let it be
to sucker-punch and perfidy,
what can be done to heal it
from the double brunt
of offense and injury?
What salve, what balm
would comfort and relieve it,
not just this time,
but also in the longer later?
To mend it, should one
marinate with love
to ease and soften
or pickle it in brine,
to tan it into leather,
toughen into shield?
Ossification
is the choice of some,
for, like vasectomy,
it can sometimes be reversed.
Those who’ve paddled
to the bitter end
of Love’s one-way Tunnel
may choose petrifaction,
preferring stone to bone.
Let’s linger with the heart,
for it has stuck with us,
to comfort if not heal it.
It sorely needs repair,
but can’t afford to rest
or worse, just stop.
Quiet harmony can be restored
by a simple tune-up
following eviction:
time to throw the squatter out,
due process’s time has come.
The volume now turned up,
the message is quite clear,
the sheriff’s at the door
where, although it’s mine,
he’s not serving me.
Why is it,
when we’re wounded,
shot in the back or heart,
we tend to take the blame
when the shouting’s done
and the silence claims us?
I thought I was receiver,
but am transmitter, too,
donor and donee
of contaminated blood.
As actor,
I must play all the roles
because I am the playwright
and director, too.
Here on the stage
what have I been, but target
for an audience of one?
What is it that I’ve done,
what crime?
What is the punishment,
for crimes of self on self?
Whatever crime,
I can’t throw the first stone,
and will not hurl the last.
I’ve done the time.
Parole, probation, pardon,
amnesty, whatever . . .
Escape,
when I release myself
I’m free.
Edward and his Whipping Boy (ca. 1545)
The Whipping Boy -- Petr Sís
Beginning with the Tudor dynasty, whipping boy was an established position at the English court during the 15th and 16th centuries, kept for the purpose of beating him when the crown prince did wrong. Though whipping boys were sometimes orphans of foundlings, they were often high-born companions of the royal princes and shared many of the privileges of royalty. It was considered a form of punishment to the prince that someone he cared about was made to suffer. In 1609, James I declared, "The state of monarchy is the supremest thing upon earth; for kings are not only God's lieutenants upon earth, and sit upon God's throne, but even by God himself they are called Gods." Since God imposes the monarchy, and the prince would be an extension of that lineage, no one but the king could be worthy of punishing the prince. James' heir was Charles I, whose whipping boy was his close friend William Murray, whom Charles ennobled as first earl of Dysart in 1626.
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