Having no fear of dark places,
I stand outside.
Tho I have been gone two hours
beyond my normal work day,
I smell the smoke from the ash log
I placed on the grate
before I drove 127 north in daylight.
I listen to hurried feet, quick paces,
moving opposite thru dry leaves. Do not hide!
Do not fear the poet? I call. January buds--no flowers
I tell myself--will sway
yellow come April. August fog
rising from Old Seventy said snow
on this January date,
but what knows August of January? I ask. I write
flames that flicker upon the wind.
I write the touch of fingers along bare skin.
I write the singing of frogs along Old Seventy.
I write words across the black sky,
trying to piece together a poem,
trying to paint an image of a woman,
no child of forests, of open air,
but of intimacy, of indoor graces.
I close my eyes to light up the dark; bend
over you; uplift your small breasts when
I do as tho I am where my heart used to be;
as tho I am glancing over your shoulder; as tho I
seek your parted mouth to postpone
immortality & you, more than a kept woman,
welcome my most caressing look. You stare
into the stream of my eyes, one fish with two faces.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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"I close my eyes to light up the dark..."
The other night I had an interesting experience while visiting the Art Museum here. It was the exhibition of Monet at Normandy. The gallery was packed on this last (and late) night showing. From the guestbook we discovered that these people coraled and politely pushing along the walls had traveled worldwide to see the dazzling jewels of paintings hung there. ... Dazzle they did, tho strangely I wondered about this famed Impressionist now so popular...his simple almost dispassionate strokes...Pretty but cluttered perhaps? What is he saying with this? I kept searching... ... Partly because I dislike crowds, mostly because I'm so dang short, I soon found it more convenient to simply move to the center of the room and stand on a bench (stealthfully). When I managed this finally without getting caught, I discovered something I had only known from books. What he wanted me to see could only be seen from 10 ft away...Not the light, but the memory of the light. And I think in poetry also, this is Art: to capture the light, yes... then light up the dark in other's eyes as well according to where the reader stands.
As I left the museum that night and even still, I see the light of those paintings when I close my eyes.
Anyway, reading you lights my mind the same way.
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I think you were captured by Monet as you were meant to be... You should do a story about your experience--at least a poet... To have my poetry do what Monet managed to do with his work is most unexpected... Thank you...
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Powerful and rich, worth many readings. By the penultimate stanza you create a mesmerizing rhythym.
This one is a lot more than words...has a life of it's own.
(line 20...left off an 'h')
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I admire this comment. I have not see the word: penultimate used in reference to my poetry, critical or supportive before your use here. I am pleased that the next to last stanza revealed a rhythm that you found to be successful. I get put the h in & thank you...
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