Leftovers Under the Bus

Leftovers Under the Bus

 

 

cellophane smiles

plastic wrapped insinuations

resolutions of dissolution

 

hidden in drawers of secrecy

as his love pours into Tupperware tepidness and

illusions of allusion

 

as love poems

write scabs over themselves, the scars

intrusions of confusion.

 

 

 

 

erin-cilberto

10/20/19

Reviews

[Rhayne]

Okay, I read the poem and I had visions and thoughts and then I laughed at myself when I read the reviews. Completely different take I had, that's why I laughed. First, I considered the title, 'Leftovers Under the Bus' and immediately I pictured the schoolyard several blocks down the street, the buses parked side-by-side, resting for the night. A slight breeze blowing debris from underneath the buses, rattling the cellophane wrappers across the asphalt. Some still have remnants of their treasure. Then, the occasional Tupperware bin some kid discarded at their Mom's disdain comes rolling out. I thought, okay, she opened the kitchen drawer and found she was out of plastic wrap, Tupperware it is. Looking at the clear plastic bowl you can almost tell what was in it but you just can't be sure. And last but not least, the tattered and worn paperback book of poetry that someone is probably ripping their bookbag apart looking for, full of love poems with certain lines highlighted. Obviously, they were comparing to their real-life pain and emotions, drudging up past relationships gone wrong. Maybe they meant to throw it away.

Funny how poems can be worded to create different pictures, thoughts, and interpretations. Guess that's why it's called Poetry. I'm not a poet and I haven't studied poetry. I'm not good at writing it but since I joined this site, I've come to love reading it. And I love your work. I have since day one. So, if I'm way off on the intended meaning, I apologize. Just know that in any case, I loved it.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i think the only intended meaning a poet would have is whatever the reader interprets...and hope that the reader relates in some way...you did. and i appreciate that, Rhayne....and your very kind words on my poetry.
j.

[Pryde Foltz]

"as love poems

write scabs over themselves, the scars

intrusions of confusion"

I always wonder at those who can move from one love affair to another. Not this girl. I need recovery time and time for the scabs to turn into faded lines. I don't forget easy. Poignant write, Jacob:)

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i don't know if poets ever forget...and i know you don't since you have the heart of a poet....in your words and in how you recite them aloud...
there is passion...
thank you,
j.

[Pryde Foltz]

Thank you so much, Jacob:)

[olla]

I try really hard not to pick at those scabs.. we have become a throw away society.. in more ways than one.. I always enjoy your writing.. both your command of the language and the thoughts described make it one of those dishes that tend to get better after a night on the counter...

[jacob erin-cilberto]

thank your for your kind review, olla,
j.

[DAH]

Intense pain spills forth "as love poems
write scabs over themselves" –– sensational!

This poem bleeds torment, and takes this reader to his knees.

Cheers,
DAH

[jacob erin-cilberto]

thank you, DAH,
j.

[John Alexander McFadyen]

The depth of the hurt is palpable in these words Jacob. Strange how everyday things can be used to describe such feelings.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

thank you for your words, John,
j.

[Chris Shaw]

Such strength in the title. Leftovers are so unappetising especially when love poems write scabs over themselves. That leaves a nasty after taste. The scars of this love seem deep and intrusive, adding to the confusion. I can't help feeling that this love might be one of those that would be better erased from the memory altogether. Painful to read Jacob. Evoked strong feelings. Sort of how I feel about an early one of mine.


Chris

[jacob erin-cilberto]

thank you for your insights and relating to this piece, Chris.
j.