[quote]Hallowed wrote:
I love poetry… I’m going to look up that poem N.
Regret… if it pulls you into the past and sucks you down regret is a negative force. If it spurs you to do better next time, to appreciate your experiences more fully to change for the better to not make the same mistakes twice regret becomes a positive impetus… even when born from pain. Regret… a double edged sword indeed.[/quote]
Hallowed: I see that wisdom is among your many gifts. I think your analysis is exactly right. And generally I think regret is a positive force for me–although still a painful one.
Here’s the poem.
Missed Chances (Stephen Dobyns)
In the city of missed chances, the streetlights always flicker, the second hand clothing shops stay open all night and used furniture stores employ famous greeters.
This is where you are sent after that moment of hesitation. You were too slow to act, too afraid to jump, too shy or uncertain to speak up.
Do you recall the moment? Your finger was raised, your mouth open, and then, strangely, silence.
Now you walk past men and women wrapped in the memory of the speeches they should have uttered-Over my dead body. Sure, I’d be happy with ten thousand. If you walk out, don’t come back- past dogs practicing faster bites, cowboys with faster draws,where even the cockroach knows that next time he’ll jump to the left.
You were simply going to say, Don’t go, or words to that effect-Don’t go, don’t leave, don’t walk out of my life. Nothing fancy, nothing to stutter about. Now you’re shouting it every ten seconds.
In the city of missed chances, it is always just past sunset and the freeways are jammed with people driving to homes they regret ever choosing, where wives or helpmates have burned the dinner, where the TV’s blown a fuse and even the dog, tied to a post in the backyard, feels confused, uncertain, and makes tentative barks at the moon.
How easy to say it-Don’t go, don’t leave, don’t disappear. Now you’ve said it a million times.
You even stroll over to the Never-Too-Late Tattoo Parlor and have it burned into the back of your hand, right after the guy who had Don’t shoot, Madge, printed big on his forehead.
Then you go town to the park, where you discover a crowd of losers, your partners in hesitation, standing nose to nose with the bronze statues repeating the phrases engraved on their hearts-
Let me kiss you. Don’t hit me. I love you- while the moon pretends to take it all in.
Let’s get this straight once and for all: is that a face up there or is it a rabbit, and if it’s a face, then why does it hold itself back, why doesn’t it take control and say, Who made this mess, who’s responsible?
But this is no time for rebellion, you must line up with the others, then really start to holler, Don’t go, don’t go- like a hammer sinking chains into concrete, like doors slamming and locking one after another, like a heart beats when it’s scared half to death.
– from Cemetary Nights, essential