Regret: the worst emotion

Those that know me best know that I live my life by this philosophy: never apologize for how you feel. You can’t help your feelings. What you can control are your actions. Those you are accountable for. But feelings? No, those come from within.

With that, I often make decisions based on how I feel, on my instinct, what I believe to be right...because that way, at least I did what I felt was best, and in that way, I don’t have regrets.

No regrets. I hate having regrets. That feeling that maybe things could have been different. I think that’s why when Glenda Ollero, a girl in my class posted the following poem in response to my last blog, it resonated with me.

How articulate and beautiful, tragic and terrible, I found it. I think we've all been there, given yourself to someone or something that could not meet you half way or give you what you deserve.I think that's why I like this poem. Because it's what every person who has been hurt by a lover wants their lover to feel later. We want them to know what they missed out on, what they gave up, and to wonder what could have been...if only they'd had enough courage to recognize what they had right in front of them. We want them to feel what he says in this poem. I'm sorry." I'm sorry all the kisses I scrawled on your neck were written in disappearing ink."

My interpretation of the poem is as follows.

It is about a man who has just met up with an old flame, a past lover. It is now 13 years later and they are reminiscing about their past together and he is regretting his choices in the relationship. She is now married, “I notice the ring that's landed on your finger.”

The first thing I liked about the poem is how strong the woman is. “Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt in your voice under a blanket and said there's two kinds of women—those you write poems about and those you don't.”

To me, that line says that 13 years ago, the woman realized that this man could not give her what she deserved, he did not consider her to be the kind of woman you write poems for. Knowing she deserved someone who thought the world of her, but also knowing she could not force him to feel this way, she left him. That’s my kind of girl. What's better? The fact that he recognizes that he did not do right by her. "It's true. I never brought you a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed."

The next part of the poem I enjoy is when he talks about how he fulfilled a role in her life. He was that bad boy, the one without the emotions, the unromantic...which he now regrets. I think we all fulfill different roles in each other's lives. Our purposes differ, too bad his was the wrong one in her life. How agonizingly sad. “But I worked within the confines of my character, cast as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan of your dark side."

“We don't have a past so much as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power never put to good use.” Haven’t we all been there? Had so much chemistry and passion with someone that all else was lost?

“But I'm still not immune to your waterfall scent, still haven't developed antibodies for your smile.” Now that is lovely poetry. Is it true, are there people who we never get over, no matter how hard we try?

Thirteen years later, this man is still hopelessly in love with this woman who has now moved on. “I don't know how long regret existed before humans stuck a word on it.” There it is. Regret.

And finally, the end of the poem. Words written so well and articulately so, I will let them speak for themselves. What I will add is this, if you have something to say to someone, you should say it right then and there, before the moment passes you by. The point of the poem? The fact that they were too busy being sexually engulfed in each other, they never took the time to appreciate the person behind the passion.

“I wish that just once, instead of skidding off the shoulder blade's precipice and joyriding over flesh, we'd put our hands away like chocolate to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy of each other's eyelashes, translated a paragraph from the volumes of what couldn't be said.”

Thanks Glenda, this is easily one of my favourite poems now.

If you have an interpretation, please share!

The Benjamin Franklin of Monogamy
by Jeffrey McDaniel

Reminiscing in the drizzle of Portland, I notice
the ring that's landed on your finger, a massive
insect of glitter, a chandelier shining at the end

of a long tunnel. Thirteen years ago, you hid the hurt
in your voice under a blanket and said there's two kinds
of women—those you write poems
about

and those you don't. It's true. I never brought you
a bouquet of sonnets, or served you haiku in bed.
My idea of courtship was tapping Jane's Addiction

lyrics in Morse code on your window at three A.M.,
whiskey doing push-ups on my breath. But I worked
within the confines of my character, cast

as the bad boy in your life, the Magellan
of your dark side. We don't have a past so much
as a bunch of electricity and liquor, power

never put to good use. What we had together
makes it sound like a virus, as if we caught
one another like colds, and desire was merely

a symptom that could be treated with soup
and lots of sex. Gliding beside you now,
I feel like the Benjamin Franklin of monogamy,

as if I invented it, but I'm still not immune
to your waterfall scent, still haven't developed
antibodies for your smile. I don't know how long

regret existed before humans stuck a word on it.
I don't know how many paper towels it would take
to wipe up the Pacific Ocean, or why the light

of a candle being blown out travels faster
than the luminescence of one that's just been lit,
but I do know that all our huffing and puffing

into each other's ears—as if the brain was a trick
birthday candle—didn't make the silence
any easier to navigate. I'm sorry all the kisses

I scrawled on your neck were written
in disappearing ink. Sometimes I thought of you
so hard one of your legs would pop out

of my ear hole, and when I was sleeping, you'd press
your face against the porthole of my submarine.
I'm sorry this poem has taken thirteen years

to reach you. I wish that just once, instead of skidding
off the shoulder blade's precipice and joyriding
over flesh, we'd put our hands away like chocolate

to be saved for later, and deciphered the calligraphy
of each other's eyelashes, translated a paragraph
from the volumes of what couldn't be said.