The poet, who draws inspiration
from the beauty of living
in the natural, tactile world,
lies alone in bed after dinner
and a walk beneath the stars
with the poetess, and begins,
– a poet’s imperative! –
imagining the landscape
of her body, but stops
at the simple gold cross,
an arrow pointing the way
to the line where her breasts meet,
and he realizes it would surely
take an almightly god
to forgive his sins.
Archive for naked
WWJD
Star to Star
She, archivist of the articulate verses of detail:
lyrics of Canadian songwriters, secret
smiles shared like stolen candies,
funny foreign phrases, flags flapping
topsy turvy prayers to the freshening wind.
He, interpreter of the lush contours of desire:
pearls of sweat adorning snow-white breasts
in the dry heavy heat of the sauna, young
pink flesh rolling in the new-fallen snow
that covered the whole dark sensual world.
Together, they made a sort of poetry:
wood smoke curling in the winter sky,
fragments sketched on frosty windows,
love letters traced star to star
across the brief impatient night.
Nine Affirmations for Nine Nine Oh Nine
I will drink nine cups of coffee at nine;
I will plant nine acorns in nine holes
on nine hills;
I will serve nine platters of nine cupcakes
with nine candles;
I will send nine letters to nine editors
on nine serious subjects;
I will tell nine friends nine secrets
in nine languages;
I will feed nine sardines to nine cats
with nine lives;
I will follow the nine commandments
of the god of 729 names;
I will pleasure my ninth lover nine times
at her nine erogenous zones;
I will compose nine songs of celebration
for the eight planets
and Pluto, the cartoon dog.
Working on a new type of poem
New for me, anyway.
Working title is “A Curious History of Women in the Arts in 19th Century England”
I hope to post it later today, at least a draft
Perhaps by Monday. The enormity of my task is sinking in. I have a plan!
Lady Caroline Lamb
Euphemia Chalmers Gray
Ritual
Ritual
Like a banner at a medieval fair,
the white chevron bisects
fields of pink, rectangular above
and two triangles below,
and at its center a dark crest,
a mythical beast with a wild black mane.
The white is the skin that lay beneath
my Speedo at the beach, the pink
the tender skin that my cycling clothes had covered.
With my abs above and thighs below
like flamingos or high clouds at sunset
or suckling pigs, but hard and strong beyond their years,
and the dark mane a thatch of wiry hair
untouched by gray, my crotch
the youngest feature on this middle aged terrain,
diminished neither by doubt nor disuse,
a proud lion on a drought wracked plain.
Away from the mirror, long swim trucks
pulled up and tied, through the showers
to the university pool, across the cool tile,
over the edge, the shock of cool water.
I adjust my goggles like an aviator on the runway
and push off, parting the smooth blue surface,
sensation of bubbles jetting past
clean shaven legs, as Neruda writes –
nothing but the pure, the sweet,
the thick part of my own life,
nothing but form and volume existing,
guarding life, nevertheless in a complete way –
in Ritual of My Legs – mis piernas –
in the delicious years before the Spanish Civil War,
and he adds – People cross the world nowadays
scarcely remembering that they possess a body
and life within it – and so it is that I am reminded,
by the sting of the sunburn, by the outlandish
pink and white bands, and by the slippery
interface of flesh and water, the strong
rhythmic stroking across the blue skin
of the world, and by the sweet smile
of the lifeguard when I retrieve my ID card
and turn for the locker room.
“Number 13″ new poem very rough draft
Hard to sleep last night after long bike ride, jotted this down:
Number 13
The bright morning light
shone through the thin mountain air
flooded the downstairs bedroom
with the warm glow
of pure young love.
Tracing the inside of your arm
slowly at the pace of morning
from wrist to elbow
bicep to armpit
the curve of your breast
ribs and soft belly and hip
across the tops of your thighs
a pleasure you could not resist.
After
ravenous for the Number 13
breakfast at the Soda Springs Café
eggs on potatoes
with cheese and green onions
and a splash of salsa
and hot coffee for me.
We don’t make love any more.
I rarely eat breakfast.
Midwest mornings are dull and damp.
The torch you carried for me
has gone cold but now I see
it wasn’t a light in the dark
because we glowed
in perpetual sun.
Now I am the dark.
I need your torch to lead me back
but I have sucked all the air
out of our world
and choked the flame.
I am black like an oil slick
spreading over the sparkling sea
coating your feathers with tar.
Now I depend on coffee
but the taste is bitter
the effect muted
dulled by
a chronic fatigue of the soul.
I miss holding your warm body
I miss lingering over breakfast together
but more like nostalgia for a favorite book
not like body hunger.
And of course
the light
I miss the light.
Not sexy hot naked lust poem
Redridge Beach
There are a million particles
Of sand on Redridge Beach,
A million stars that light the night,
The sky just out of reach.
I sit upon the wavy edge
Of past and what’s to be,
As starlight shines upon the curve
Of sand that slides to sea.
I cannot see where lake meets sky
Or know what lies beyond,
But I can feel the lulling beat –
Live on, live on, live on.
