Lessons in Punctuation ~ Blue
There is poetry in life
There is life in poetry.
In your eyes are the hard
syllables of love,
in the bitter sweet smile
of a lost woman,
in the round concentration
of a red stop light.
I don’t know the last time
there was as magenta a sunset
or a more orange mango.
Was wine ever this red?
Poetry speaks a thousand
tricky words of sweetness,
ten times more in the language
of cold rain.
An abattoir of disappointment,
a kiss, a little death.
sweet as spring in a Russian winter.
Poetry is just the articulated
breakdown
of beauty.
Of death.
Of sorrow.
Her eyes, brighter
than a hundred suns,
or your mother’s Sunday best
crystal high on the shelf.
Take me to dinner,
the princess.
recite to me the words of a whore.
There is poetry in life
There is life in poetry.
In your eyes are the hard
syllables of love.
October 28, 2005
October 22, 2005
October 20, 2005
Something Blue..........
This week I had letters to write. Real letters, on paper with ink.
First I wrote to Petra. A postcard from the national gallery. Smooth fountain pen on slick card. I always enjoy the ease with which the words come. Words like:
Bliss.
Thankfulness.
Love.
I enjoy the act of writing and have a collection of papers, envelopes, post cards and thick covered cards depicting art I enjoy. I have always coveted these things… kept them in various boxes with special pens tucked in amongst them. These days it’s only a tin box but amongst the delicious paper is a wax seal with my initials. (Ironically, I am never sure if the wax actually gets through the mail to my destination. How can something so fragile survive the violence of the post office?)
I am a bit, shall we be kind, particular. I only like the old fashioned fountain pens. The ones with ink that requires careful application of cartridges. Yes, even at work. The clerk who orders the office supplies knows to order mine in blue ink. How wonderful it feels to make notes on my projects. Words that reflect the commitment I make to myself and others within my organization:
Integrity.
Thorough.
Commitment.
And it’s nice having a pen on hand in case a poem comes to mind or a phrase from an eavesdropped conversation. You never know when the inspiration will sweep in and kiss you.
In the journals I once kept I was mesmerized with how the words grew. Sentences formed. Paragraphs. How the empty pages faded away replaced with the history of my heart, of my life. Of the details I saw in the fabric of my world.
Now I have this world. Light and shadow. The HTML of my world broken down into something digital and intangible. You cannot run your fingers over the font and feel the pressure used to write the words. You cannot see the tear marks from my frustration as the words poured out of me or the passion when I struck bone.
I think something is lost in a way. Our love affair with the written word. How easy it is to erase this. There is no organic working of the words to string them together. There is no verbal jewelry making. When you look at the screen it’s not the same as holding the reassuring weight of my letters, the five pages of neat script in blue ink. (Perhaps with my tea stain on the corner.)
I am tempted to write this out and scan it. But something is lost in the translation from tactile to one dimensional.
In reality, I am thankful that I have this. It’s what keeps me real, knowing that the words are still there if only in font on a screen.
Perhaps I will save the ink and stamps for my next letter. For words like
Soon.
Tomorrow.
Always.
G.
First I wrote to Petra. A postcard from the national gallery. Smooth fountain pen on slick card. I always enjoy the ease with which the words come. Words like:
Bliss.
Thankfulness.
Love.
I enjoy the act of writing and have a collection of papers, envelopes, post cards and thick covered cards depicting art I enjoy. I have always coveted these things… kept them in various boxes with special pens tucked in amongst them. These days it’s only a tin box but amongst the delicious paper is a wax seal with my initials. (Ironically, I am never sure if the wax actually gets through the mail to my destination. How can something so fragile survive the violence of the post office?)
I am a bit, shall we be kind, particular. I only like the old fashioned fountain pens. The ones with ink that requires careful application of cartridges. Yes, even at work. The clerk who orders the office supplies knows to order mine in blue ink. How wonderful it feels to make notes on my projects. Words that reflect the commitment I make to myself and others within my organization:
Integrity.
Thorough.
Commitment.
And it’s nice having a pen on hand in case a poem comes to mind or a phrase from an eavesdropped conversation. You never know when the inspiration will sweep in and kiss you.
In the journals I once kept I was mesmerized with how the words grew. Sentences formed. Paragraphs. How the empty pages faded away replaced with the history of my heart, of my life. Of the details I saw in the fabric of my world.
Now I have this world. Light and shadow. The HTML of my world broken down into something digital and intangible. You cannot run your fingers over the font and feel the pressure used to write the words. You cannot see the tear marks from my frustration as the words poured out of me or the passion when I struck bone.
I think something is lost in a way. Our love affair with the written word. How easy it is to erase this. There is no organic working of the words to string them together. There is no verbal jewelry making. When you look at the screen it’s not the same as holding the reassuring weight of my letters, the five pages of neat script in blue ink. (Perhaps with my tea stain on the corner.)
I am tempted to write this out and scan it. But something is lost in the translation from tactile to one dimensional.
In reality, I am thankful that I have this. It’s what keeps me real, knowing that the words are still there if only in font on a screen.
Perhaps I will save the ink and stamps for my next letter. For words like
Soon.
Tomorrow.
Always.
G.
October 16, 2005
October 08, 2005
Confession
Erotic.
Take the word. Break it down. Turn it like a beach stone in your hand.
Can you feel the warmth of the sun on your body? Run your finger along the stripe of pure white, innocent against the dark smoothness of it. Silken. Heavy. Like the pulse of blood as it hits your heart, sudden and remembered. Delicious. That heat that comes with it.
Erotic.
It’s such a different word than the everyday ones we use to describe those sexual feelings. Erotic conjures black and white photography, jazz music and Änais Nin. For me it is so subtle, more in the intent than the act. Details.
For example, take fucking in a car….
Fucking in a car is purely, fucking. Heated. The windows fogged, the ferocious eating of one another’s skin. Panties not removed, but roughly shoved aside. This kind of interaction will leave you with a scratch mark if you are not careful.
What is erotic in that moment is her finger marks in the condensation, which he will trace with his own. And then taking that visible wet that they have made tangible outside of their bodies, he will trace this along her shoulder blade. Carefully. Moving her hair at the back of her neck with his breath. A pause in the hunger. He marks her with love.
That is erotic. Passionate. Fierce. But filled with some tenderness that we know from touch, but can’t quite articulate.
It hardly matters if J and I are in some high geared maneuvering. There are moments when it is more than just sex, it’s erotica enacted. Or perhaps this is just what sex is. But I doubt everyone has erotic sex.
I love to watch my fingers against his skin. Disarticulated, they haunt the places that my mouth cannot reach. Gentle or angry. I enjoy their smallness, daintiness… against the more dark flesh of his body. Or how he responds to them, intake… exhale. I should have someone photograph them.
And this brings me to the real intent of this introspection….
I want to catalogue these experiences of flesh. I want to photograph the erotic minutia of sex. Her fingers in his hair. Her lips on his chest. Not the greater detail. But the intent of it. The details. Remember those? The devil is in them, my sweet.
I want to look through my own window, not seeing me… but seeing what it may be.
An ordinary fantasy I am sure… but wouldn’t the photographs be wondrous?
Erotic.
G.
Take the word. Break it down. Turn it like a beach stone in your hand.
Can you feel the warmth of the sun on your body? Run your finger along the stripe of pure white, innocent against the dark smoothness of it. Silken. Heavy. Like the pulse of blood as it hits your heart, sudden and remembered. Delicious. That heat that comes with it.
Erotic.
It’s such a different word than the everyday ones we use to describe those sexual feelings. Erotic conjures black and white photography, jazz music and Änais Nin. For me it is so subtle, more in the intent than the act. Details.
For example, take fucking in a car….
Fucking in a car is purely, fucking. Heated. The windows fogged, the ferocious eating of one another’s skin. Panties not removed, but roughly shoved aside. This kind of interaction will leave you with a scratch mark if you are not careful.
What is erotic in that moment is her finger marks in the condensation, which he will trace with his own. And then taking that visible wet that they have made tangible outside of their bodies, he will trace this along her shoulder blade. Carefully. Moving her hair at the back of her neck with his breath. A pause in the hunger. He marks her with love.
That is erotic. Passionate. Fierce. But filled with some tenderness that we know from touch, but can’t quite articulate.
It hardly matters if J and I are in some high geared maneuvering. There are moments when it is more than just sex, it’s erotica enacted. Or perhaps this is just what sex is. But I doubt everyone has erotic sex.
I love to watch my fingers against his skin. Disarticulated, they haunt the places that my mouth cannot reach. Gentle or angry. I enjoy their smallness, daintiness… against the more dark flesh of his body. Or how he responds to them, intake… exhale. I should have someone photograph them.
And this brings me to the real intent of this introspection….
I want to catalogue these experiences of flesh. I want to photograph the erotic minutia of sex. Her fingers in his hair. Her lips on his chest. Not the greater detail. But the intent of it. The details. Remember those? The devil is in them, my sweet.
I want to look through my own window, not seeing me… but seeing what it may be.
An ordinary fantasy I am sure… but wouldn’t the photographs be wondrous?
Erotic.
G.
October 07, 2005
Other Stories, Other Windows............
I Think of You There ~ Christopher FARRAR
I think of you there, ironing his shirts.
Standing, in that silky slip, deep ocean blue.
Sliding the iron back and forth with care.
Maneuvering the shirt, eyes glazed in concentration.
That tender strap, just a thread on your shoulder.
Legs, muscular coming out to meet the floor.
Arms, soft, griping the iron tightly.
I lay here in dark morning, focused on the ceiling.
Knowing you are there without me.
This bed is cold and lonely.
Soon I will rise to meet the day.
Finding a series of tasks.
To keep me busy , try and forget,
you are 2500 miles away,
ironing his shirts.
I think of you there, ironing his shirts.
Standing, in that silky slip, deep ocean blue.
Sliding the iron back and forth with care.
Maneuvering the shirt, eyes glazed in concentration.
That tender strap, just a thread on your shoulder.
Legs, muscular coming out to meet the floor.
Arms, soft, griping the iron tightly.
I lay here in dark morning, focused on the ceiling.
Knowing you are there without me.
This bed is cold and lonely.
Soon I will rise to meet the day.
Finding a series of tasks.
To keep me busy , try and forget,
you are 2500 miles away,
ironing his shirts.
October 06, 2005
Magic...
Sentimental Story ~ Nichita STANESCU
Then we met more often.
I stood at one side of the hour,
you at the other,
like two handles of an amphora.
Only the words flew between us,
back and forth.
You could almost see their swirling,
and suddenly,
I would lower a knee,
and touch my elbow to the ground
to look at the grass, bent
by the falling of some word,
as though by the paw of a lion in flight.
The words spun between us,
back and forth,
and the more I loved you, the more
they continued, this whirl almost seen,
the structure of matter, the beginnings of things.
Then we met more often.
I stood at one side of the hour,
you at the other,
like two handles of an amphora.
Only the words flew between us,
back and forth.
You could almost see their swirling,
and suddenly,
I would lower a knee,
and touch my elbow to the ground
to look at the grass, bent
by the falling of some word,
as though by the paw of a lion in flight.
The words spun between us,
back and forth,
and the more I loved you, the more
they continued, this whirl almost seen,
the structure of matter, the beginnings of things.
October 05, 2005
Letters I've Written, Never Meaning to Send
I have been reading more blogs… other peoples’ words, other windows. I love to hear the voices, layer upon layer. Rich with life experience that I have not had… It’s like walking down a street at night, peeking in… seeing other people’s wallpaper, paint… negligee.
In a way, it makes me wonder if there is any real value in my own words. Fleetingly. This passes. Perhaps there is only one other who is moved by the music in my words. It is worth it, for that one moment… regardless of distance or geography… we connect. It’s not that my words hold value. It’s if my words tell the truth.
There is only truth here. Sweet. Bitter. Fire and starlight. Whatever it may be.
All those words have made me hunger for an old friend and his words. Moon. His words are now only faded mementos… and all I have left are the poems I wrote to solve his beauty. I never have enough friends like this… truthful ones. Real ones. And when they finally go down their own paths, I miss them like an old lover. It’s such a mixture of love and loss.
Paper Roses for Moon
I seek the seer, a sage
whose wisdom is filled,
to a ripeness of which
hangs high, moon
and stars
reflected off your face.
I have wandered
the long lonely woodland path,
followed the frogs
and wind, feet bare
on the moss, the stairs silent.
Wandered, found you
in your dusty wisdom;
a tuxedo of sadness
rumpled and frayed at the cuffs.
Your lapel is bare, my love.
Am I beautiful to you?
My toes
buried in all what has fallen.
my eyes filled with weeping
Fingering into your memories,
my hair smelling of the cedars,
you cannot speak
so you pull me in,
a father a lover a savior.
We bleed
on the spit and polish lost
the truth hidden in the underbrush
smelling of green.
Tongue finding no words
I pin all of my fading
paper roses
to your heart.
~
Reach out to me. Fill me with your voice. Your ideas. Your fingerprints. Pour into me the affluence of your individual dialogue. Raise it up. Higher. Touch me here… there… inside… out. Leave no stone unturned. No leaf on the limbs of our solitude. Come. Knock on my door. Leave your name, your song. Together we shall write the new masterpiece of the living. Together we shall live the truth that is ordinariness.
That is what we are. Inside the silent frame of our windows.
G.
In a way, it makes me wonder if there is any real value in my own words. Fleetingly. This passes. Perhaps there is only one other who is moved by the music in my words. It is worth it, for that one moment… regardless of distance or geography… we connect. It’s not that my words hold value. It’s if my words tell the truth.
There is only truth here. Sweet. Bitter. Fire and starlight. Whatever it may be.
All those words have made me hunger for an old friend and his words. Moon. His words are now only faded mementos… and all I have left are the poems I wrote to solve his beauty. I never have enough friends like this… truthful ones. Real ones. And when they finally go down their own paths, I miss them like an old lover. It’s such a mixture of love and loss.
Paper Roses for Moon
I seek the seer, a sage
whose wisdom is filled,
to a ripeness of which
hangs high, moon
and stars
reflected off your face.
I have wandered
the long lonely woodland path,
followed the frogs
and wind, feet bare
on the moss, the stairs silent.
Wandered, found you
in your dusty wisdom;
a tuxedo of sadness
rumpled and frayed at the cuffs.
Your lapel is bare, my love.
Am I beautiful to you?
My toes
buried in all what has fallen.
my eyes filled with weeping
Fingering into your memories,
my hair smelling of the cedars,
you cannot speak
so you pull me in,
a father a lover a savior.
We bleed
on the spit and polish lost
the truth hidden in the underbrush
smelling of green.
Tongue finding no words
I pin all of my fading
paper roses
to your heart.
~
Reach out to me. Fill me with your voice. Your ideas. Your fingerprints. Pour into me the affluence of your individual dialogue. Raise it up. Higher. Touch me here… there… inside… out. Leave no stone unturned. No leaf on the limbs of our solitude. Come. Knock on my door. Leave your name, your song. Together we shall write the new masterpiece of the living. Together we shall live the truth that is ordinariness.
That is what we are. Inside the silent frame of our windows.
G.
October 04, 2005
October 02, 2005
Beauty in the Breakdown...
Coming home this morning I paused… the sky was coming up the same colors as a brook trout, soft and full of clouds. I had not noticed the silence until I was about to enter the house. And there it was, glaringly obvious. A void in the morning. The sky was silent. The riot of morning song birds is still.
Summer is over.
I have a few regrets.
I did not go night swimming. Oh wait, I did. And it was quite spectacular. Off a boat in the big Shuswap Lake. But I was meaning that night swimming with a lover, the teasing of the slippery skin as it snakes by you…
I did not listen to Led Zeppelin while driving down a country road.
I did not make out in a grass field.
I did not get to wear a little strappy dress to a party.
I did not get to eat in at my favorite little restaurant; where, if I was so inclined, I could have eaten off my lover’s fingers.
I did not go camping.
I did not make eggs on an open fire.
I did not get to listen to someone playing a guitar under the night sky, the fire crackling a percussion.
I did, however, have a few adventures. And, let us not forget, I met J. Summer’s sweetest harvest. A girl can’t go wrong meeting one of those rare, good men. I count myself blessed.
Summer is so sweet and is often makes the renewed beauty of September come in second place. Yet, I enjoy the unfolding of the autumnal dress. The rich, tangible colors, the velvet feel as summer’s vibrancy is mellowed. When I run, I love how I can smell the honey scent of blackberries rotting on the vine and the wine scent of apples on the ground. If summer is rich, autumn is about the end of the feast. The waste of all that decadence. It is far too prosperous to carry on, like Madame Bovary, we know that the audacity must end.
A poem, from September 1996.
Blackberry Kisses
Nothing can alter the simplicity of
blackberry kisses.
Thickly entangled vines
crisscrossing vertical spaced
thorns snagging skin;
lazy seduction in light’s rippling
caught in September’s eclipse
(the silken softening is maddening)
Here the sun penetrates
the darkest of shadows
with the shattering brilliance of bliss.
The coolness of fall soothes
summer heat in forgetfulness;
everything is forgiven,
everything lay to waste
until rebirth.
New sight heightens sensation,
my lover’s skin becomes velvet,
thick and rich as grass
(green and sun-dance)
amongst the sweetness
of blackberry stained lips.
Although I know these lines are dated and even a little saccharine, there is that same sense of relief. The heat is gone. It’s time to curl up with a good glass of wine, soft sheets and a good book. Oh yes and the delicious morning touch of a lover. (Only one, don’t be greedy. Summer is over.)
G.
Summer is over.
I have a few regrets.
I did not go night swimming. Oh wait, I did. And it was quite spectacular. Off a boat in the big Shuswap Lake. But I was meaning that night swimming with a lover, the teasing of the slippery skin as it snakes by you…
I did not listen to Led Zeppelin while driving down a country road.
I did not make out in a grass field.
I did not get to wear a little strappy dress to a party.
I did not get to eat in at my favorite little restaurant; where, if I was so inclined, I could have eaten off my lover’s fingers.
I did not go camping.
I did not make eggs on an open fire.
I did not get to listen to someone playing a guitar under the night sky, the fire crackling a percussion.
I did, however, have a few adventures. And, let us not forget, I met J. Summer’s sweetest harvest. A girl can’t go wrong meeting one of those rare, good men. I count myself blessed.
Summer is so sweet and is often makes the renewed beauty of September come in second place. Yet, I enjoy the unfolding of the autumnal dress. The rich, tangible colors, the velvet feel as summer’s vibrancy is mellowed. When I run, I love how I can smell the honey scent of blackberries rotting on the vine and the wine scent of apples on the ground. If summer is rich, autumn is about the end of the feast. The waste of all that decadence. It is far too prosperous to carry on, like Madame Bovary, we know that the audacity must end.
A poem, from September 1996.
Blackberry Kisses
Nothing can alter the simplicity of
blackberry kisses.
Thickly entangled vines
crisscrossing vertical spaced
thorns snagging skin;
lazy seduction in light’s rippling
caught in September’s eclipse
(the silken softening is maddening)
Here the sun penetrates
the darkest of shadows
with the shattering brilliance of bliss.
The coolness of fall soothes
summer heat in forgetfulness;
everything is forgiven,
everything lay to waste
until rebirth.
New sight heightens sensation,
my lover’s skin becomes velvet,
thick and rich as grass
(green and sun-dance)
amongst the sweetness
of blackberry stained lips.
Although I know these lines are dated and even a little saccharine, there is that same sense of relief. The heat is gone. It’s time to curl up with a good glass of wine, soft sheets and a good book. Oh yes and the delicious morning touch of a lover. (Only one, don’t be greedy. Summer is over.)
G.
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