Wednesday, December 05, 2007
I write poems
There is always meaning behind it, Emilie.
These nosegays I give you each morning,
Black and purple pansies with
Yellow stripes for your hands,
Ivy for your hair.
They carry the same meaning as
Your silk nightgown
Crumpled next to the bed
Or the cat that you named that
Sleeps on the couch that
We bought last summer.
All Love is Unrequited
Emily fills me with the light of the universe,
An internal super-nova in her slightest movement.
She is unaware of this,
She only knows that I like her smile
and her new red sundress.
When we talk, sometimes she laughs and
there are rivers in the sound.
White-capped crashings through me,
the waters of rebirth.
But I cannot tell her this.
I can only comment upon the weather
or ask if she's seen the new roses I've planted.
(She does not know I planted them for her).
When Emily walks in my garden,
She brings with her the bees,
The necessities of life.
And I live, in the light of her universe.
My Emilea is a momentary fire goddess,
Able to plunge me to ashes with a glance.
On her lips, daggers are roses
Her kisses are saltwater blessings
From my personal Pele
You write in fragments, she says.
Do you imagine yourself a modern Sappho?
Do you think yourself the eleventh Muse?
I think you lack the grace for the part,
Though you certainly have the passion.
It is true that I am graceless.
In Emili's shadow, swans become albatross,
Wine becomes water and
I am but an artless girl
Whose heart quakes with longing