Open

Posted on September 18, 2010 by Ruth Weal

This piece of prose is about how we often don’t see the possibilities within our own actions, both positive and negative.
I had this idea of a conversation between a wise old man and a youth, which examines the discussion and “Open” was the finished product.

OPEN

Open your stride; tell me…, what do you see?

“Nothing”
Nothing?
“Nothing”

But there is so much to see, so much, possibility
Exotic lands you have yet to tread, every step a journey you have not led
Every pause to rest a blessing, leaving you time enough for the balm of confessing
Bringing you ever closer to your ending, returning you to the beginning for the final mending
So that you might fall at the feet of great love and sup from the fount of divine knowledge above
Then you might accept the random fleetingness of this life indeed, as you spread new life with your sown seed

Open your arms; tell me…, what do you see?

“Nothing”
Nothing?
“Nothing”

But there is so much you can be, so much, opportunity
Untried but true, your great love’s embrace; wanton but pure, still innocent and chaste
Unknown but fast, a protective circle you cast
Enveloping the unborn child, protecting the innocence mild
The fearful, desperate clasp to stave off dark death, or the jealous, binding grasp of unflinching selfishness
All these promises dormant in your arms they wait; waiting only on your actions and the hand of fate

Open your hands; tell me…, what do you see?

“Nothing”
Nothing?
“Nothing”

And yet I see only the possibilities, a great abundance of opportunities
A wealth of works as yet unformed and a thousand caresses awaiting their dawn
A weapon raised or a cradle for the babe, so many situations to choose or evade
The hand of friendship or a mortal wound, the choice to win a heart or seal your doom
A means to build bridges or plunder and destroy, to lead and be bold or hide and be coy
Raised in surrender or held out in peace to those you greet, your hands unfold the story of all whom you meet

Open your heart; tell me…, what do you feel?

“Everything”
Everything?
“Everything”

Everything, all the many splendid possibilities, each and every sacred opportunity
Every hurt I might inflict, each wound I won’t intend and all the many sorrows that I may have to mend
Each gentle look, every unshed tear, all the times I held back, when I could have interfered
Every unmatched moment, each forgettable kiss, I see them all before me and not a one would I miss
Everything I could ever be, every possibility, and all the many opportunities
The path to love and tenderness, that begins and ends within this flesh

This entry was posted in My Art, Poetry and Prose and tagged literature, poetic, poetry, poetry and prose, prose, ruth weal, symbol, symbolic, symbolism, wealie, words. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Open

Rehan Qayoom on October 2, 2010 at 12:56 am

Examination at the Womb-Door

Who owns those scrawny little feet? Death.
Who owns this bristly scorched-looking face? Death.
Who owns these still-working lungs? Death.
Who owns this utility coat of muscles? Death.
Who owns these unspeakable guts? Death.
Who owns these questionable brains? Death.
All this messy blood? Death.
These minimum-efficiency eyes? Death.
This wicked little tongue? Death.
This occasional wakefulness? Death.

Given, stolen, or held pending trial?
Held.

Who owns the whole rainy, stony earth? Death.
Who owns all of space? Death.

Who is stronger than hope? Death.
Who is stronger than the will? Death.
Stronger than love? Death.
Stronger than life? Death.

But who is stronger than Death?
Me, evidently.
Pass, Crow.

Ted Hughes.