Tamara
Madison
Tamara Madison and her second husband on their wedding day.
The All That Love Does Not Conquer
By Tamara Madison
I was married at 19 to my first serious boyfriend.
We probably wouldn't have gotten married, but he was hired to work as a guide on a U.S. Information Agency exhibit in the Soviet Union, and we wanted to be together so I had to become his wife.
It was a fascinating, difficult and transformative experience. He was a very dynamic person, and also controlling, not to mention a philandering serial monogamist. The marriage lasted only a few years. I promised myself I would never marry again unless it was perfect.
That's when I met my second husband, and it was perfect. He was a troubled person, however, who both longed for the stability of marriage but expected rejection in every situation in life. Although he misrepresented himself in some vital ways at the outset, I loved him very much.
In spite of his wonderful sense of humor, he seemed determined to be unhappy. He saw the world in black and white, and seemed to court dissatisfaction. I just couldn't fix him! In many ways, our marriage felt unnatural.
We were such good friends, though! We separated after 17 years of marriage, but didn't divorce until our youngest child was 18. Nevertheless, we remained a family and we were close friends until he died two years ago. He was almost 20 years older than me, and for his last few years I was "in charge" of his life. Our last words to one another were "I love you.".
When we divorced, I became involved with a man I was physically attracted to, which was something new to me.
It was actually an awful relationship most of the time. We were together for 22 years. I broke up with him several years ago, but we own a dog together and so we try to remain friends, which is difficult because I have so many resentments about our time together.
So I can say I'm one of those people who aren't "lucky in love".
Otherwise, my life is full of love: I have two wonderful children, three beautiful grandchildren, and many close friends, among them several dating from childhood, and some newer ones too. I feel blessed to have so many close female friendships.
I will always cherish the memory of my second husband and the many absurd and hilarious things he used to say. I keep his urn on my kitchen table; I told him I wanted to talk to him every day, and I do.
I was married at 19 to my first serious boyfriend.
We probably wouldn't have gotten married, but he was hired to work as a guide on a U.S. Information Agency exhibit in the Soviet Union, and we wanted to be together so I had to become his wife.
It was a fascinating, difficult and transformative experience. He was a very dynamic person, and also controlling, not to mention a philandering serial monogamist. The marriage lasted only a few years. I promised myself I would never marry again unless it was perfect.
That's when I met my second husband, and it was perfect. He was a troubled person, however, who both longed for the stability of marriage but expected rejection in every situation in life. Although he misrepresented himself in some vital ways at the outset, I loved him very much.
In spite of his wonderful sense of humor, he seemed determined to be unhappy. He saw the world in black and white, and seemed to court dissatisfaction. I just couldn't fix him! In many ways, our marriage felt unnatural.
We were such good friends, though! We separated after 17 years of marriage, but didn't divorce until our youngest child was 18. Nevertheless, we remained a family and we were close friends until he died two years ago. He was almost 20 years older than me, and for his last few years I was "in charge" of his life. Our last words to one another were "I love you.".
When we divorced, I became involved with a man I was physically attracted to, which was something new to me.
It was actually an awful relationship most of the time. We were together for 22 years. I broke up with him several years ago, but we own a dog together and so we try to remain friends, which is difficult because I have so many resentments about our time together.
So I can say I'm one of those people who aren't "lucky in love".
Otherwise, my life is full of love: I have two wonderful children, three beautiful grandchildren, and many close friends, among them several dating from childhood, and some newer ones too. I feel blessed to have so many close female friendships.
I will always cherish the memory of my second husband and the many absurd and hilarious things he used to say. I keep his urn on my kitchen table; I told him I wanted to talk to him every day, and I do.
Impasse
In moonlight I wake
in the cold of our bed
too anchored to dreaming
to look for the blanket
I travel the mounded plain
between our bodies
and find you rising there
a far dark mountain
Asleep, your skin
is cool as the sheets
cool as the gulf
between us
When we wake
we touch arms
yours a dark fence, heavy
hold me in my place
Somewhere above
this gray morning landscape
of plain and mountain
our spirits entwine
like ribbons of smoke
and rising, do
what our bodies no longer will
In moonlight I wake
in the cold of our bed
too anchored to dreaming
to look for the blanket
I travel the mounded plain
between our bodies
and find you rising there
a far dark mountain
Asleep, your skin
is cool as the sheets
cool as the gulf
between us
When we wake
we touch arms
yours a dark fence, heavy
hold me in my place
Somewhere above
this gray morning landscape
of plain and mountain
our spirits entwine
like ribbons of smoke
and rising, do
what our bodies no longer will
The Lovers
— after Magritte
The lovers are kissing
each beneath a separate
head-covering cloth.
The man's nose
is a peninsula jutting
into the shadowy sea
of the woman's cheek—
but they have no eyes,
no hair, just a presumption
of mouths, the shrouded point
where their faces meet.
I have heard the commentary:
the artist's mother's
dead body pulled
from the water
covered with the cloth
of her wet dress—some think
it's about death: the death
of love, maybe,
or the isolation of lovers,
hidden identities,
mystery—so what?
You show what you want
them to see, they see
what they want to see;
in the end, what does it matter?
Love is a blessing no matter
how it arrives: real or imagined,
behind a gray muslin shroud
or unclothed in the doorway,
brilliant with the joy
of being loved
and loving back.
— after Magritte
The lovers are kissing
each beneath a separate
head-covering cloth.
The man's nose
is a peninsula jutting
into the shadowy sea
of the woman's cheek—
but they have no eyes,
no hair, just a presumption
of mouths, the shrouded point
where their faces meet.
I have heard the commentary:
the artist's mother's
dead body pulled
from the water
covered with the cloth
of her wet dress—some think
it's about death: the death
of love, maybe,
or the isolation of lovers,
hidden identities,
mystery—so what?
You show what you want
them to see, they see
what they want to see;
in the end, what does it matter?
Love is a blessing no matter
how it arrives: real or imagined,
behind a gray muslin shroud
or unclothed in the doorway,
brilliant with the joy
of being loved
and loving back.
At his apartment he arranges
the flowers in vases: deep
red tulips, gladiolas in salmon
and yellow, magenta stock,
daisies, stargazer lilies.
I can't help but reflect
that I have never had a lover
so dedicated in his adoration
as my son is for his beloved.
It pains me to think
that he will someday learn
about the all that love
does not conquer.
I help him place the flowers
around the two small rooms;
the lilies gaze across the floor
toward the window but
the daisies smile up at me,
confident and pleased,
existing only, as they do,
in the resplendent optimism
of Now.
Worn Stones
I remember being in love.
I remember wanting nothing
more than you: here, here,
here, and here—everywhere
and always. I remember
how a kind of magnet
seemed to draw us close
to one another, how
we fell in together
like something that had to be:
my protons completed
by your neutrons.
That was the way it was.
The electrons are tired now,
the ions losing their charge.
Still we shuffle our way
toward the worn stone
of one another, drawn
like sun to horizon, every night
another splash into the sea.
I remember being in love.
I remember wanting nothing
more than you: here, here,
here, and here—everywhere
and always. I remember
how a kind of magnet
seemed to draw us close
to one another, how
we fell in together
like something that had to be:
my protons completed
by your neutrons.
That was the way it was.
The electrons are tired now,
the ions losing their charge.
Still we shuffle our way
toward the worn stone
of one another, drawn
like sun to horizon, every night
another splash into the sea.
At Nineteen
There is no one like the one who shows you how.
Who wants you to stay all night and every night.
Who wants to know everything about you.
Who says that first night I think I’m falling in love
and believes it (even though you don’t).
Who says that the divorce is not final but
it doesn’t matter.
The one he was living with has gone back to her husband.
The one he met last semester in Leningrad understands;
she has a husband to go back to, too.
It’s all about you now.
He talks so well, loves so deeply – he leaves you no way out.
And he teaches you things.
He knows so much, and you are so new to the world
you take it in; the more you learn,
the less you know.
And he’s a brilliant man. Deliciously profane.
He sees your intelligence and raises it.
And oh, he knows how to love!
Too much at times.
He can roll a joint with one hand.
He can smoke that joint, put his hair in a bandanna,
turn on all the lights and clean the house.
Then, he can sit at his desk and write a brilliant paper.
While the rest of the party is drooling on the couch
he lectures them on geopolitics, paces the living room,
straightening.
He sees who you are, wants to nurture your spark.
When you plead for some space, just an hour or two,
he begs you to stay. He’s a little, fatherless boy at heart.
He needs you. Only you.
When you take him to meet your parents, they are thrilled.
At last, your father tells your mom,
our daughter has met a real man.
He can reason you out of any hesitation.
He is destined for greatness.
He gives you no choice but to love him.
There is no one like the one who shows you how.
Who wants you to stay all night and every night.
Who wants to know everything about you.
Who says that first night I think I’m falling in love
and believes it (even though you don’t).
Who says that the divorce is not final but
it doesn’t matter.
The one he was living with has gone back to her husband.
The one he met last semester in Leningrad understands;
she has a husband to go back to, too.
It’s all about you now.
He talks so well, loves so deeply – he leaves you no way out.
And he teaches you things.
He knows so much, and you are so new to the world
you take it in; the more you learn,
the less you know.
And he’s a brilliant man. Deliciously profane.
He sees your intelligence and raises it.
And oh, he knows how to love!
Too much at times.
He can roll a joint with one hand.
He can smoke that joint, put his hair in a bandanna,
turn on all the lights and clean the house.
Then, he can sit at his desk and write a brilliant paper.
While the rest of the party is drooling on the couch
he lectures them on geopolitics, paces the living room,
straightening.
He sees who you are, wants to nurture your spark.
When you plead for some space, just an hour or two,
he begs you to stay. He’s a little, fatherless boy at heart.
He needs you. Only you.
When you take him to meet your parents, they are thrilled.
At last, your father tells your mom,
our daughter has met a real man.
He can reason you out of any hesitation.
He is destined for greatness.
He gives you no choice but to love him.
Barricade
Even as we held each other in my skinny kitchen
where spring raged outside the windows
you had already begun to construct your fence.
Even as one hand caressed, you were weighing
the first stone in the other, settling it firm
in the sliver of space between us.
How could I have seen it, with the world outside
all purpled and waving with blossom?
Even as we held each other in my skinny kitchen
where spring raged outside the windows
you had already begun to construct your fence.
Even as one hand caressed, you were weighing
the first stone in the other, settling it firm
in the sliver of space between us.
How could I have seen it, with the world outside
all purpled and waving with blossom?
London, ‘92
In her late thirties she wears
a black leather bomber jacket,
tight jeans and high top Reeboks;
he in his low twenties – plush lips
and a headful of brown curls.
The camera misses
the whizzing sparks between them:
he on the verge of something,
she staring out
from the marriage cage.
But April is blooming on the heath
and in the gardens
the Queen’s swans glide
over mirrored clouds as the sun
breaks over St. Paul’s Cathedral,
impersonating God.
In her late thirties she wears
a black leather bomber jacket,
tight jeans and high top Reeboks;
he in his low twenties – plush lips
and a headful of brown curls.
The camera misses
the whizzing sparks between them:
he on the verge of something,
she staring out
from the marriage cage.
But April is blooming on the heath
and in the gardens
the Queen’s swans glide
over mirrored clouds as the sun
breaks over St. Paul’s Cathedral,
impersonating God.
The Captive
What is this cord that ties me to this shore
these rocks, this tide that bangs against the pier
this land I long to leave and see no more—
ah, I have made this promise every year.
I count the times you've aggravated me
the many ways you've chafed and weighed me down
but still you clung as though you could not see—
aloof to warnings, deaf to anger's sound.
Yet still I stay as tethered to this bark
with eyes that churn and long for open sea
for in the hold some deep rope ties my heart
and binds us fast, like roots that hold the tree.
If I could cut this tie I'd do it so
my shift adrift, I'd gladly watch it go.
What is this cord that ties me to this shore
these rocks, this tide that bangs against the pier
this land I long to leave and see no more—
ah, I have made this promise every year.
I count the times you've aggravated me
the many ways you've chafed and weighed me down
but still you clung as though you could not see—
aloof to warnings, deaf to anger's sound.
Yet still I stay as tethered to this bark
with eyes that churn and long for open sea
for in the hold some deep rope ties my heart
and binds us fast, like roots that hold the tree.
If I could cut this tie I'd do it so
my shift adrift, I'd gladly watch it go.
"Worn Stones" is my favorite.
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