Sequence As Opposed to SeriesI
This chapel (before electricity)
Knows beauty of darkness in this image
Because its photographer knows beauty
Of black next to dim castings of glass when
The sky stops at evening and the chapel
Is darkening, candleless, lanternless.
The wildness of the heart, seeking outlet,
Increases in the dark and the presence
Of God only makes it wilder, frantic
To gush at last, just kissing, to orgasm.
Like William Henry Fox Talbot, you buy
Paper, and where he took photographs you
Write poems. I have seen you in your top hat.
I have seen your mouth: wide, sensual, tight.
II
I say to myself, Don't read his poem if
It hurts you so. Don't sit, emporched, rocking,
Reading a young man's poem as if
It were yours, or, as if it were to you.
'You don't need an extra ache, my girl,' I
Say to her: Young Lady. Old Woman. Neither.
'But--what he has done is
so beautiful.'Yes but--you explode with future, too-- . . . Too.
I'll write my best guess at the inlander's
Dance on the beach: "Pipers and plovers and
Further, pelicans, launch in a body
Because I run."
Distinct from the body
Is the rim, so that the still shell can swirl,
And the swirling surge can one, still, streak, make. III
Why? To diffuse the intensity of
Our second true meeting, we staged our third
Outside, the whole time on the weather's verge,
The salt-light. Less facile with language, we
Let other wild things take on the stirring:
That wind that kept sounding like rain, ravens.
The sleek bee landing in his bottle of
Orange juice distracted but did not stop him
As he read his poem in the same husky
Voice he uses to compose. And my turn:
The black ant traversing my manuscript
Distracted but did not stop me, nor did
The other bee hovering, nor even
His hand as he brushed the bee from my hair.
IV
He kisses Margaret. He knows when girls
Want him to kiss them. He can tell. I want
Him to, even though I am not a girl.
Harpists need their fingertip calluses
To stay hard; they can never go swimming.
Here, where the stream runs over the manmade
Dam, the ruin of a folly stands, limestone
That would seem even colder next to his
Soft skin. I pretend to say, 'I would like
To be kissed here.' I feature his answer,
'Yeah? We should try it.' I'm old, old enough
To be his mother. I've said, "I don't want
Some mother/son configuration with
You, William." He said, "Oh, you're not. You're not."
V
Later on to myself I "say" to him:
'Your device goes: Just as fall/winter are
Every bit as pretty as spring/summer,
In fact more so, so brunettes
I.e. her] are every bit as pretty
As blondes, in fact more so.
This is news?' At the time, I said to him,
"You have got to start thinking in meters,
Not syllables." His dedication to
Her reads "These words are yours." Bullshit, they're his.
Her words are what she says. When
We, for real, discussed his sonnet, he said
"I stole that line from you." "Which?" That "'Across
Your mouth.'" Listen, I was telling you: kiss me.
VI
How delicate--the matter between us,
The issue, sweet--the tip of your penis.
VII
Why? Because this happens merely unto
Air. You, I mean you, William. You write
Yourself down between one sleep and the next
For whom? Rain on your window, you see. Rain
On your rooftop, I "see." I, Catholic,
Willingly take your intellect to heart
But . . . The bed in the other room, pauses.
My streaking window's text I cast in words:
"Hazelwood"; "last tracery of the last
Chance I might ever want." I can't tell which
You are. Ephemera? Recognizer?
Don't you see that I long to fill you with
Erections, that I gasp to behold you,
Presbyterian, in pain of my own?
VIII
I wrote "it," I wrote: "It," wrote "It is too
Painful"--I did not write "I never want
To see you again"--I wrote "It." "It is
Too painful to see you, right now." "I," he
Wrote me back, "understand, I really do,
I'm not upset." That was upsetting. Where
Is your anger, Man? You have lost me, your
Great and former mentor! He signed himself
"Your friend," then first name, last name. Now when I
Walk the dunes, or go downtown for errands--
The post office, the store--my reminder
Goes: 'To avoid him will be hard but it
Will help me the most.' Your rhythmic shoulders . . .
He does not trip on curbs. He does not crash.
Mary Leader
*******************
RL
If you have a request for a certain Poet, post their name in the thread and I will find a poem by them and post it...
if you want to see some of my poetry, see the blog at:
http://www.myspace.com/retropaul
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