Archive for November, 2009

Parking Lot

The purest sound, most honest
Soughs through my lips and teeth;
Bliss will not allow me words
So all I do is breathe.

And like a lusty vapor
My sweet sigh drifts and and roams
Until cool condensation
Becomes of my soft moans.

They linger on the window,
My exhales like a veil,
A curtain that’s replenished
Each time my words do fail.

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Untitled (Help?)

DISCLAIMER: The following poem will make so much more sense if you read the back-story of which I am about to provide. So, in 1599 a man named Christopher Marlowe wrote “The Passionate Shephard to His Love” – a highly flowery proposal full of promises of never-ending happiness and wealth. Some hundred years later, Sir Walter Ralegh wrote “The Nymph’s Reply to the Shephard” – a resounding decline explaining that the life he has described is simply not possible. Flowers die, people get old, nothing is perfect, nothing is permanent. Then, in 1938, C. Day Lewis wrote his own version of Marlowe’s proposal and called it “Song”. Instead of false promises however, Lewis’ message was basically, “we will not live in lavish, we might even die of starvation, but if you would like to experience these things with me, come live with thee and by thy love”. It was an honest, no-bullshit version of “The Passionate Shepherd”. Personally, I fell in love with “Song”. To me, it is everything that love should be – through thick or thin, for better or worse. So, I here is my reply to “Song”.

If thou can promise place of rest
By downy bed or tender breast
Thy shared slumber shall make thee move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Forget things of such steep expense
For no degree of opulence
Can satisfy thy ‘poverished heart
Than the affections thou imparts.

If thou believes love shall endure
When age hath robbed thy youth’s allure
then thou shall love thy furrowed brow
As thou loveth thy features now.

Let fondess be thy only food
If ‘side thy thou life can conclude.
Promise thee this and thou shall move
To live with thee and by thy love.
* * * * *
So, there it is. It is hugely a work in progress and harshest criticisms are more than welcome. Also, if you have any idea for a title, let me know!

Fiborous Tissue

A small white scar
on the tan of his right hand

(the slip of a knife as he
wrestled with tough meat
an errant bottle cap from
before we met)

a ridge I run my thumb across,
gently.

* * * *
Inspired by Michael Ondaatje’s poem, “The Time Around Scars”. If you haven’t read it, I suggest you pick up a copy of the Cinnamon Peeler, selected poems.

Wine

Hooting and howling,
we crashed through the cemetery
at St. John’s Anglican Church
at the corner of Wilson and Halson
brandishing bottles of red wine.

Running like drunken angels
through the moonlit streets with
wild faith for a sense of direction,
the North Star blurred into oblivion.

Smashing our empty bottles
against the gravel road, littering
the pavement with bits of stained glass.

We fell to our knees

and waking in the morning with
shameful scrapes and
lips like inky black.

* * * * *
“Wine” is the result of a weekly Read Write Poem poetry challenge: to write a poem based on food associations. For me, wine, a drink loaded with meaning and connotation, came to mind. And, with wine, came the memory of the worst/best night of my life. Critiques and criticisms are welcomed and encouraged, however harsh! I can take it :)