Transmutations
February 3, 2017 at 1:49 pm Leave a comment
Transmutations
I find myself unable
to even outstretch an arm
to pause you! (am i, then,
shy?)
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
often.
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: poetry from voices, transmutations.
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