Andare, Partire, Tornare

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Two poems

Eve

Last Night you wanted me to tell my secret,
to whisper it in the rising language of the body
hands, lips, eyes to tell the tale.

I grip the quilt, twisting it in monastic hands,
your demands beating grey in the air before me,
moth-winged dragons swimming in the bedroom.

You peel me towards the floor in an unbroken ribbon,
handled with care, yet ruffled as pasteboard cards
revealing bone (curved rib) as white as apple-flesh.

Layers on layers, we sink deeper
spheres of influence turning cool sheets to tangled shreds
handled with both hands in deep pockets.

Two in Time
(for Tim)

The apples have fallen now,
hidden by shoots of thickly-seeded grass,
red skin curled back, revealing withered white.
like nesting dolls, we perch
quiet on our mantlepiece
silent in her box, the ballerina sleeps
dust settling on the ceiling's gilded roses.
Your hands, my dear, are still filled with quiet strength,
And the grace of your wide shoulders holds undiminished.
Together, we still pass lightly through this lifetime
Conversing our way past the cobwebs and neon friezes
love songs still beating in our chests, our fingertips.

So I've finally decided to post my own poetry. I figure it would be much better if I could rid myself of a certain histrionic turn of phrase, but every time I decide I don't like a poem, I find a line that still resonates for me, and so I keep it around. So, I'm posting these two, and no doubt putting a nice large bullseye on my back, but anyhow...

Why is it that poetry classes will help you write poetry, but never help you figure out if yours is *good* or not?

3:10 p.m. - 2001-12-10

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