Tenderness in The Pause

Uncut Poetry

I read this incredible poem today. And I weeped at its infinitesimal beauty. Tenderness by James Crews. Here it is - . Tenderness You know how a half-buried stone in the yard will clear all the snow from around itself, little by little, leaving only a hollow of warmth and a cushion of moss you want to rest on, until winter finally ends? That's how tenderness works in us, some heat rising up from beneath, then spreading outward to touch the lives of anyone who comes near - slowly, softly, making a safe place for them to stand in, melting away the coldness that gathers around us. It’s remarkable the way anger and desire and desolation and longing and love work inside us simultaneously. It’s a unique human ability to hold all of this inside at the same time, wrapped, more often than not, in an envelope of tenderness. And I think the only thing which makes us go on, in spite of all the hardships of heart that we face, is with that amazing hope that life will sort it all out for us. But the fact remains - to believe in this living is a hard way to live. What makes people to persevere through their exhaustion, when in the name of hope there is nothing more than a recurrent duplicitous (dub plis I tuhs) dawn? What makes people to keep their believe intact? That there is a road which they will turn and there will be different outcome to look out for? Why are there not more suicides? There have been tropes written on dimly-lit lifes which seem to be forever on the edge of insanity. But which look normal in their daily breath, the illusion of ordinariness making them mesh into the continuum of quotidian grey. This is normal - until it is not. Suddenly there is an explosion- people snap and destroy things, lives - often their own. The alternative is even worse, there is an implosion, and aching bodies become islands of doom, as they suck all that is good and bountiful into their black hole. Entire landscapes of hearts stand barren - eviscerated rather than destroyed, rendered hopeless than killed. Cruel men know this. They know the power men have on each other, how controlling lives is often only a factor of knowing what they care for most. It could be livelihood, it could be dignity, it could be trust, it could be faith. The lowest blow is always to the highest ideal, the deepest cut is always to the most transparent belief. We, who are the simplest in our exposition of what we care for, are the most vulnerable to wounds. There will always be someone ready to exploit our guileless openness. That’s why we require protectors of flames, the wise innocents, those who have been attacked but are still not cynical, those who are wounded but hold their scars as medals they’ve got for lost battles - for their richest lessons have come from their bitterest experiences, and how it makes them resolve to save those who are not able to fend for themselves. And that’s why they have to be “half-buried stones in the yard” with their growing circle of tenderness, for good men to find their refuge. If you liked this poem, consider listening to these other poems which talk of the tenderest feelings we feel -

• This : One Grace
• Aaschi - a promise
• Infinite Tenderness

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The following music was used for this media project:
Music: Wide Worlds by Tim Kulig
Free download: https://filmmusic.io/song/10273-wide-worlds
License (CC BY 4.0): https://filmmusic.io/standard-license

Music: Deep In The Soul by Reegs'B
Free download: https://filmmusic.io/song/10278-deep-in-the-soul
License (CC BY 4.0): https://filmmusic.io/standard-license