Words are not always useful, you say,
To him who’s profuse in words
But not so much in action.
See the way she sits by the window
Smiling, eyes closed, at dust dancing in sunlight?
The way her pupils flutter, arms fling
Around for balance after a spell?
Words don’t reach her; a slight singe on the skin.
You’ve met someone who fumbles a bit at words.
They pack your luggage before you part,
Listen to your sobs, cross an ocean to make
Your favourite meal, and wait back home
To wrap you up in days cared for.
Words play a minimal part in their love.
You don’t like yourself at winning arguments,
Skirting things that really matter with rhetoric.
You squirm when people overanalyse themselves
Without touching who they really are.
You ache for those who fare so well at words
Yet so pitifully at life.
He who’s won accolades for his literary flair
Now finds the real prize – the joy of doing –
Beyond his fingertips: the warm moisture of laundry
Out of the washer, the velvety sigh of an avocado
Relenting to the fruit knife … formidable, undoable.
The more she drifts to the wordless,
The more he clings to his words,
A constant in a life of change and loss.
Taking after him, you hang on to words for dear life:
The sky turns leaden and society goes stale
If you’re kept from reading or writing for too long.
Words at their highest revive sensitivity and soul,
And at their minimum validate the existence of things.
The crippled worship words; but too used
To the crutch, they forget the miracle
That they once walked.
Words are not always useful, you say,
To which he says: easier said than done.
But he tries. He’s started fixing her coffee
Instead of telling her to change; gulped down
His urge to lecture when things go wrong.
At the park he joins her in quiet surrender
To the reign of banyans and melaleucas –
Erupting into verse only in his study
Where he can be sure of words’ dominion.
Words are not always useful, you say,
To them who’ve crossed an ocean for you
But not so much into the you behind your words.
Feel the way their energy shifts, like a ship
Anchored, when you read them your poem?
The way they open up to receive
As you go on a ramble?
Words will reach them; a soft tap on the heart.
Vanessa is a Hong Kong-based writer, currently editing and writing for a local English newspaper. She holds a Master of Arts from the University of Chicago. Her work has appeared in Imprint, The Apostrophe, Eksentrika, and Adelaide Literary Magazine.