February 3, 2017 at 1:49 pm Leave a comment


I find myself unable
to even outstretch an arm
to pause you!  (am i, then,

I would have touched your hair,
if i could’ve.  (You wouldn’t
meet my eye.)  I would have held
the nervous hands
that told your tresses
like some rosary.  I would have
stilled your nimble lips, i would have
buried myself
in your russet hair.

–What was it
i thought to surprise
in your
snowfed, twinkling eyes?

I have, of course, no copies
of your poetry.  Tell me,
what coin may i pay? there were only
a table and a few chairs
between us.  What made these
foetal gestures
long for birth?

It has been more than a year
since i’ve slept with a woman.
Before that, three years.
Speak to me not of soft words!
i am untouched.  This greening
summer’s-verge spring
tells me of life:
i celebrate endings.

I sing most commonly
of unrequited love.  (Perhaps
all cynics
are merely disappointed lovers.)

Is there some barrister
who might plead my case
in your court? i have to try
to touch you, you know.
If not your heart, your mind:
and i already know
i want both.

What will you think
when you read these
wandering lines?  Appearances.
I would trace
the lines of your face
with a trembling finger.
I’d bank
and tend your fires.
(but what hand
traces your sway’s outlines,
on what moony nights?)

paul told me marriage is better
than burning.  i saw
no ring on your finger.
autumn lady,

i have had too many
winter lovers.  (Your eye
yet avoids mine.)  I imagine
walking over to you, and saying,
“Tell me your name, do.  Gift me
with your smile.  Take my hand
if even for a moment.  Your words
inspired me.”

–I am silent.  I keep
(you feel it, i know)
glancing at you.  Anticipations.
I cannot, somehow, rise.

Eventually, i leave, holding
your face like a flickering Grail.
I have never loved
another poet.  What do you use to catch a poet?  a
butterfly net?  Slender
lissome lady, this

is my swansong.  have you
pretty stones to give me,
or perhaps a flower?

–as the shadows lengthen,
i pen this, pausing

fair poet, i
would pass some words
with you.  i do not wish
nor hope to pause
your rhythmed sway.  yet just
perhaps our paths
may for a moment cross.

but these lines
are never sent:  the memory of
her face recedes, i recover
my comfortable solitude.

–and those gestures, those
momentary dreams merely
fade away.


Pretty much happened.  I also read my poetry at that little gathering in so low a voice that only those in the front row could hear me, by straining.

Entry filed under: poetry, psychology, social psychology. Tags: , .

Link to LiveJournal after the turn

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