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The Needs of The Many: Brendan Constantine

This poem describes the experience of grieving the loss of a loved one. It explores how the grief feels overwhelming ("the many") and inescapable, as crying occurs even when trying to distract oneself with television, driving, or visiting public places. Over time, crying becomes less frequent as the grief is processed, but sadness remains ("there will always be crying to do"). Finding small comforts helps endure the experience, knowing that while griefs are many, some can be cherished to lessen the pain of loss.

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27 views2 pages

The Needs of The Many: Brendan Constantine

This poem describes the experience of grieving the loss of a loved one. It explores how the grief feels overwhelming ("the many") and inescapable, as crying occurs even when trying to distract oneself with television, driving, or visiting public places. Over time, crying becomes less frequent as the grief is processed, but sadness remains ("there will always be crying to do"). Finding small comforts helps endure the experience, knowing that while griefs are many, some can be cherished to lessen the pain of loss.

Uploaded by

iamnoel
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as DOCX, PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
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The Needs of the Many

Brendan Constantine

On the days when we wept


and they were manywe did it
over the sound of a television
or radio, or the many engines
of the sky. It was rarely so quiet
we could hear just our sadness,
the smallness of it
that is merely the sound of wind
and water between the many pages
of the lungs. Many afternoons
we left the house still crying
and drove to a caf or the movies,
or back to the hospital where we sat
dumb under the many eyes
of Paul Klee. There were many
umbrellas, days when it refused
to rain, cups of tea ignored. We
washed them all in the sink,
dry eyed. Its been a while,
were cried out. We collect pauses
and have taken to reading actual
books again. We go through them
like yellow lights, like tunnels
or reunions, we forget which;
the older you are the more similes,
the more pangs per hour. Indeed,
this is how we break one hour into
many, how healing wounds time
in return. And though we know
there will always be crying to do,
just as theres always that song,

always a leaf somewhere in the car,


this may be the only sweetness left,
to have a few griefs we cherish
against the others, which are many.

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