Your hands molded melted silver,
arranging amethysts and amber.
My hands grasped the clasp;
your fingers fingered my breasts.
You serenaded my neck with your lips,
dusting me with specks
from your grass-greening hands.
Bearded boy beneath my palms;
labial lullabies beneath sylvan shadows.
Love was the word I could not speak,
the word you would have spoken.
When your hands molded my necklace, our token,
did sapphires sing beneath your palms
like our love unspoken?
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Sulking
I stand by the window whose pane is crying.
The flowers you gave me are specks of dust:
Your lips were soft against my own, my hands
explored your pubic hair like love.
We would
explore ourselves in naked summer’s mirrors.
Your nails got stuck in hair that shook like leaves;
I see leaves shake outside my windowpane.
Are you at the parade? Your hands once took
my own. Drums beat outside; I stand alone.
A pane of glass now deigns to slice our lives,
a sheer, sharp blade that keeps us from each other.
How happy I would be if I could touch
your skin that once would touch my own. My love
can’t wane, my love.
If I could steal a kiss....
The flowers you gave me are specks of dust:
Your lips were soft against my own, my hands
explored your pubic hair like love.
We would
explore ourselves in naked summer’s mirrors.
Your nails got stuck in hair that shook like leaves;
I see leaves shake outside my windowpane.
Are you at the parade? Your hands once took
my own. Drums beat outside; I stand alone.
A pane of glass now deigns to slice our lives,
a sheer, sharp blade that keeps us from each other.
How happy I would be if I could touch
your skin that once would touch my own. My love
can’t wane, my love.
If I could steal a kiss....
Walking The Dog
July 4, 2010:
I hold the night in my palm, walking down West End,
ambulance lights' shimmering red reflections on my legs.
Ahead I see your hair: black silk overwhelming your shirt's red.
I hold the night in my palm, walking down West End,
drawn to you like a dog, or a woman, black-satin-bound
to your bed. (Lilacs mingled with wisteria, on the nights
when black satin bound me to your bed.) Now I hold
the night in my palm, walking down West End.
I hold the night in my palm, walking down West End,
ambulance lights' shimmering red reflections on my legs.
Ahead I see your hair: black silk overwhelming your shirt's red.
I hold the night in my palm, walking down West End,
drawn to you like a dog, or a woman, black-satin-bound
to your bed. (Lilacs mingled with wisteria, on the nights
when black satin bound me to your bed.) Now I hold
the night in my palm, walking down West End.
Rocket Boy
You let me ride on your tail,
our leg-hairs grazing each other:
The scorched take-off seared my skin
like the mound of nails
you used to hang my picture on your wall.
The crescents of your half-closed eyes
were moons I kissed,
signs I searched for in the dark.
You promised me I’d see the sea,
but before the tide could rise
like the home-baked bread
whose crumbs once rolled
down our lips,
you turned off the oven.
I fiddle with the oven’s knob;
the glass door’s cool against my palm,
like an ocean I can only dream of
on moonless nights,
when wolves forget to howl
and I find myself far from your shore.
our leg-hairs grazing each other:
The scorched take-off seared my skin
like the mound of nails
you used to hang my picture on your wall.
The crescents of your half-closed eyes
were moons I kissed,
signs I searched for in the dark.
You promised me I’d see the sea,
but before the tide could rise
like the home-baked bread
whose crumbs once rolled
down our lips,
you turned off the oven.
I fiddle with the oven’s knob;
the glass door’s cool against my palm,
like an ocean I can only dream of
on moonless nights,
when wolves forget to howl
and I find myself far from your shore.
Conqueror (The Writing Lesson)
Your fingers were horses, and I was their chariot.
Wait! You are trying to describe love, not the Mongolian invasion.
What's the difference?
Ah, so we have a cynic in the class.
And we have a smirker as a professor.
You think I mock? On the contrary - in order to be a cynic, you need to know romance.
Bullshit.
Can we get back to the poem?
Are you going to give me crap about "the sublime art of writing"?
Only if you keep asking me questions.
It took Attila twenty years and army of well-trained warriors to conquer China. It took you five hours, and the surge of your lips against my thighs.
Wait! You are trying to describe love, not the Mongolian invasion.
What's the difference?
Ah, so we have a cynic in the class.
And we have a smirker as a professor.
You think I mock? On the contrary - in order to be a cynic, you need to know romance.
Bullshit.
Can we get back to the poem?
Are you going to give me crap about "the sublime art of writing"?
Only if you keep asking me questions.
It took Attila twenty years and army of well-trained warriors to conquer China. It took you five hours, and the surge of your lips against my thighs.
Bloody Oleanders (Minimalist Version)
Tonight your hands slither down the mountains of my breasts:
Our bed is full of oleanders strewn over wine-stained sheets -
purple petals shed like blood or uterine lining.
Your lips taste of tear-salt and wine.
Oleanders bleed into our skin; minutes are measured
in the undulations of purple petals.
At my funeral:
Will you cry, as my body sinks into a sexless bed?
Our bed is full of oleanders strewn over wine-stained sheets -
purple petals shed like blood or uterine lining.
Your lips taste of tear-salt and wine.
Oleanders bleed into our skin; minutes are measured
in the undulations of purple petals.
At my funeral:
Will you cry, as my body sinks into a sexless bed?
Bloody Oleanders
Tonight your hands slither down the mountains of my breasts.
Our bed is full of oleanders strewn over wine-stained sheets -
purple petals shed like blood or uterine lining,
as the brown threads of your hair weave a nest around my thighs.
The earth is lush as a fine wine,
tinted red like hennaed-hair - my hands
undulate into your softness,
mounds of hair beneath my fingers.
Your lips taste of tear-salt and wine,
as you dig into the mounds of my body.
Oleanders bleed into our skin; minutes are measured
in the undulations of purple petals.
At my funeral, as my body sinks into a sexless bed,
will you cry?
Our bed is full of oleanders strewn over wine-stained sheets -
purple petals shed like blood or uterine lining,
as the brown threads of your hair weave a nest around my thighs.
The earth is lush as a fine wine,
tinted red like hennaed-hair - my hands
undulate into your softness,
mounds of hair beneath my fingers.
Your lips taste of tear-salt and wine,
as you dig into the mounds of my body.
Oleanders bleed into our skin; minutes are measured
in the undulations of purple petals.
At my funeral, as my body sinks into a sexless bed,
will you cry?
On Blogging
I am currently working on a reworking of a reworking of an emo poem I wrote as a teen. I was debating which to post, but decided to post all, because a) This way I can get input, which may help me decide which version I like/keep on improving the versions I have b) part of writing is the process, and posting this is basically posting part of my creative process c) Each version has its pluses/minuses. This way, the reader can read each, and choose which one they like best, as opposed to my choosing for them.
In general, I have recently been pondering how blogging affects my writing. There are times when it is positive, because it forces me to write or edit. On the other hand, there are times I wonder if maybe I would be better off letting the piece simmer, working on it for a few weeks or even months, instead of my current instinct, to work on it for a few days max, and then post it, because I am so eager to share. Plenty of wonderful writers spent years working on one poem.
The truth is however, that while in the future I may take blog peices and work on them more, for now, I would like to get stuff out there, because as a writer, at a certain point you want a reader (or potential reader, since I don't know how many people read this), and if you feel you don't have one, it can be easy to lose motivation.
On the other hand, Franz Kafka and Emily Dickinson refrained from publishing much of their works during their lifetimes. Franz Kafka even requested that his works be burned. Clearly, these writers worked hard and produced brilliant work, in the absence of a reader. Was this despite the absence, or because of it? Tenessee Williams bemoaned the perils of young fame, and I believe that today, it is perhaps too easy for a writer to be aware of her reader's eyes upon her, and this can have a negative effect on her writing, though this "negative effect" is not inevitable.
Personally, I do not advertise my blog to friends, because while the abstract concept of someone, even someone I am close too, reading this blog, is fine and perhaps even encouraging, the thought of "Specific person A reading Specific piece B" is a bit too much for me, and I am afraid it will make me self-concious and inhibit my writing.
Of course, one day I would love to be published, actually published, in those old-fashioned things called books, and then "Specific person A reading Specific piece B" will be a reality I will have to deal with. I hope that day comes soon, and I look forward to it.
Meanwhile, a friend of mine once pointed out that Emily Dickinson and Franz Kafka's preservation of their own works, despite their refusal to publish it, points towards some hope of its eventually being published, meaning it was still written in the hope of that it would find a reader.
I am not sure where to go from here, how to tie this post up into a nice little bow, or how to avoid cliches such as "nice little bow". So instead, I will move on to the next post, one of the versions of my reworked rework of a poem.
Please forgive me.
In general, I have recently been pondering how blogging affects my writing. There are times when it is positive, because it forces me to write or edit. On the other hand, there are times I wonder if maybe I would be better off letting the piece simmer, working on it for a few weeks or even months, instead of my current instinct, to work on it for a few days max, and then post it, because I am so eager to share. Plenty of wonderful writers spent years working on one poem.
The truth is however, that while in the future I may take blog peices and work on them more, for now, I would like to get stuff out there, because as a writer, at a certain point you want a reader (or potential reader, since I don't know how many people read this), and if you feel you don't have one, it can be easy to lose motivation.
On the other hand, Franz Kafka and Emily Dickinson refrained from publishing much of their works during their lifetimes. Franz Kafka even requested that his works be burned. Clearly, these writers worked hard and produced brilliant work, in the absence of a reader. Was this despite the absence, or because of it? Tenessee Williams bemoaned the perils of young fame, and I believe that today, it is perhaps too easy for a writer to be aware of her reader's eyes upon her, and this can have a negative effect on her writing, though this "negative effect" is not inevitable.
Personally, I do not advertise my blog to friends, because while the abstract concept of someone, even someone I am close too, reading this blog, is fine and perhaps even encouraging, the thought of "Specific person A reading Specific piece B" is a bit too much for me, and I am afraid it will make me self-concious and inhibit my writing.
Of course, one day I would love to be published, actually published, in those old-fashioned things called books, and then "Specific person A reading Specific piece B" will be a reality I will have to deal with. I hope that day comes soon, and I look forward to it.
Meanwhile, a friend of mine once pointed out that Emily Dickinson and Franz Kafka's preservation of their own works, despite their refusal to publish it, points towards some hope of its eventually being published, meaning it was still written in the hope of that it would find a reader.
I am not sure where to go from here, how to tie this post up into a nice little bow, or how to avoid cliches such as "nice little bow". So instead, I will move on to the next post, one of the versions of my reworked rework of a poem.
Please forgive me.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Anger
I could squeeze you like a grape,
your breasts heavy in between my arms
that wax and wane with my intake of cookies,
like the moon on those nights when we dipped our toes
in Meditarranean waters that danced over our bodies like strippers.
I could slice you with my tongue,
a pink sliver winding its way up your thighs,
whispering words that sleep in your belly
like undigested matza, burning for forty years
in the bushes of desire.
I could do all of those things,
each nail-rind another piece of infantry,
each tooth a bullet to bite you with, my dear,
like the wolf in those fairy tales you once whispered
into my ears, an ocean of covers engulfing our entwined bodies.
But I won't, because things said can not be unsaid
and bites can not be unbitten.
But just in case my anger slips like a nightgown from my shoulders,
I will wind up gauze around my fingers, ready to shroud your wounds in white,
giver and taker of words that weigh like an overipe watermelon in my palms,
waiting to be sliced open.
your breasts heavy in between my arms
that wax and wane with my intake of cookies,
like the moon on those nights when we dipped our toes
in Meditarranean waters that danced over our bodies like strippers.
I could slice you with my tongue,
a pink sliver winding its way up your thighs,
whispering words that sleep in your belly
like undigested matza, burning for forty years
in the bushes of desire.
I could do all of those things,
each nail-rind another piece of infantry,
each tooth a bullet to bite you with, my dear,
like the wolf in those fairy tales you once whispered
into my ears, an ocean of covers engulfing our entwined bodies.
But I won't, because things said can not be unsaid
and bites can not be unbitten.
But just in case my anger slips like a nightgown from my shoulders,
I will wind up gauze around my fingers, ready to shroud your wounds in white,
giver and taker of words that weigh like an overipe watermelon in my palms,
waiting to be sliced open.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
"In Bosnia, they use mouse-shit as a diuretic", he said, a cigar hanging from his lip, his overly big suite hanging from his body. "But Sergei -" "Nobody buts me - except the women in my bedroom, when I am in the mood for a strap-on" Here, he smacked the girl's bum. There was an eerie silence.
"Your move" - the card game continued, black spades mingling with red hearts. There were three rules at Sergei Sergievesky's Sunday night gatherings: 1. Never question his word 2. Never be a Republican 3. Always play cards.
He was not seen much around the building during other days of the week, or the weekend, but sometime screams could be heard emanating from his apartment. Some said those were the sounds of his sexual proclivities, that his desires extended to men and women, whips and chains. Others said that he was a member of the Russian mafia, and he used that chamber to torture and kill informers. Of course, Sergei was mostly Bosnian, but there were a few days when we caught him being Russian as well. When asked about the discrepancy, he replied, "What, can't a Bosnian visit Russia now and again?", and as ever, the card game carried on.
There was one week however, when I showed up, only to find the door opened by a petite woman in her forties, her hair covered in a flowery kercheif. "Hello." she said, "I guess you didn't get my letter." "What letter?" "On Monday, at 12:55 PM Shmuel killed himself." Her voice sounded dry, like desert winds howling into sand. "Shmuel?" "You called him Sergei, I believe." There was a moment of silence. I could not find the right sylables - they all seemed empty, somehow. "He was very grateful to have you in his life. All his Manhattan friends - those Sundays were the highlight of his week. He would talk about it all the time." I nodded. "We should have noticed - my husband and I - but - everything was so normal. He would come home from work, and start planning the menu for his Sunday card games. Maybe that wasn't normal. But we figured - I figured, he is just excited to see his friends. A young boy in his twenties, what's wrong with that?" She shook her head, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. "You were just friends weren't you?" she asked gently, "I mean...he was never married." "I have no valid evidence that your son was not straight", I said firmly, deciding that mere rumors were not a reason to add to a woman's tears. She smiled. "But you have no valid evidence he was straight either?" I shook my head. She sighed. "I had to come here to say goodbye. I don't expect to come back. The apartment was my brother's - Shmuley was looking after it, but with him gone...I haven't the strength now." I nodded. I considered saying, "I am sorry for your loss", or "Shmuley was a great friend", but even in my head, those words sounded corny, and I had never really known Shmuley - I had known Sergey, the Bosnian gangster who liked Glenlivet. (Well, that should have been a clue to his real identity...)
"Would you like to - take something - to - remember my son by - please?" The words were croaked more than said. So I scampered around the studio, trying not to feel uncomfortable about rifling through the posessions of a corpse while his mother stood and watched. I found a picture of someone- a girlfriend I suppose - with her hands clasped in Sergei's, only he was wearing a normal-fitting suit and a yarmulka. As I stared at the photo, I realized how, despite having spent hours with this man every Sunday, there was so much about him I still didn't know - that I never would know now.
I showed the photo to Sergei's mother. "Perhaps you would like it?" She laughed. "I never knew he had a girlfriend. His own mother...oh God, I have failed you". She started to sob, and I felt supremely awkward, but I knew she would notice if I tried to sneak out. After a moment, she gained control. "Let me have it for a moment, and then you can keep it." On the back she wrote, "Remember", and some words in Hebrew that I could not understand. "That says "Zachor", the Hebrew word for "Remember". It also says Shmuley's Hebrew name: Shmuel Zecharyah ben Avraham Yitzchak, and the Hebrew dates that he lived."
I did not have the heart to ask how he died, which weapon he used and where he perpetrated his crime. "Goodbye" I said, but she had started crying again and did not anwser.
We still have card-games on Sundays, sometimes. When we do, I make sure to keep Sergei's picture by the Glenlivet, out on the mantle. I still don't know his real last name - or his English first name, for that matter. We don't really discuss Sergei that much, because between who is sleeping with whom, and Republican-bashing, there is way too much to talk about. Once in a while however, someone in the group will randomly say, "In Bosnia, they use moust-shit as a diuretic", and the rest of us will burst out laughing.
"Your move" - the card game continued, black spades mingling with red hearts. There were three rules at Sergei Sergievesky's Sunday night gatherings: 1. Never question his word 2. Never be a Republican 3. Always play cards.
He was not seen much around the building during other days of the week, or the weekend, but sometime screams could be heard emanating from his apartment. Some said those were the sounds of his sexual proclivities, that his desires extended to men and women, whips and chains. Others said that he was a member of the Russian mafia, and he used that chamber to torture and kill informers. Of course, Sergei was mostly Bosnian, but there were a few days when we caught him being Russian as well. When asked about the discrepancy, he replied, "What, can't a Bosnian visit Russia now and again?", and as ever, the card game carried on.
There was one week however, when I showed up, only to find the door opened by a petite woman in her forties, her hair covered in a flowery kercheif. "Hello." she said, "I guess you didn't get my letter." "What letter?" "On Monday, at 12:55 PM Shmuel killed himself." Her voice sounded dry, like desert winds howling into sand. "Shmuel?" "You called him Sergei, I believe." There was a moment of silence. I could not find the right sylables - they all seemed empty, somehow. "He was very grateful to have you in his life. All his Manhattan friends - those Sundays were the highlight of his week. He would talk about it all the time." I nodded. "We should have noticed - my husband and I - but - everything was so normal. He would come home from work, and start planning the menu for his Sunday card games. Maybe that wasn't normal. But we figured - I figured, he is just excited to see his friends. A young boy in his twenties, what's wrong with that?" She shook her head, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. "You were just friends weren't you?" she asked gently, "I mean...he was never married." "I have no valid evidence that your son was not straight", I said firmly, deciding that mere rumors were not a reason to add to a woman's tears. She smiled. "But you have no valid evidence he was straight either?" I shook my head. She sighed. "I had to come here to say goodbye. I don't expect to come back. The apartment was my brother's - Shmuley was looking after it, but with him gone...I haven't the strength now." I nodded. I considered saying, "I am sorry for your loss", or "Shmuley was a great friend", but even in my head, those words sounded corny, and I had never really known Shmuley - I had known Sergey, the Bosnian gangster who liked Glenlivet. (Well, that should have been a clue to his real identity...)
"Would you like to - take something - to - remember my son by - please?" The words were croaked more than said. So I scampered around the studio, trying not to feel uncomfortable about rifling through the posessions of a corpse while his mother stood and watched. I found a picture of someone- a girlfriend I suppose - with her hands clasped in Sergei's, only he was wearing a normal-fitting suit and a yarmulka. As I stared at the photo, I realized how, despite having spent hours with this man every Sunday, there was so much about him I still didn't know - that I never would know now.
I showed the photo to Sergei's mother. "Perhaps you would like it?" She laughed. "I never knew he had a girlfriend. His own mother...oh God, I have failed you". She started to sob, and I felt supremely awkward, but I knew she would notice if I tried to sneak out. After a moment, she gained control. "Let me have it for a moment, and then you can keep it." On the back she wrote, "Remember", and some words in Hebrew that I could not understand. "That says "Zachor", the Hebrew word for "Remember". It also says Shmuley's Hebrew name: Shmuel Zecharyah ben Avraham Yitzchak, and the Hebrew dates that he lived."
I did not have the heart to ask how he died, which weapon he used and where he perpetrated his crime. "Goodbye" I said, but she had started crying again and did not anwser.
We still have card-games on Sundays, sometimes. When we do, I make sure to keep Sergei's picture by the Glenlivet, out on the mantle. I still don't know his real last name - or his English first name, for that matter. We don't really discuss Sergei that much, because between who is sleeping with whom, and Republican-bashing, there is way too much to talk about. Once in a while however, someone in the group will randomly say, "In Bosnia, they use moust-shit as a diuretic", and the rest of us will burst out laughing.
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