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the saddest poem…

…I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

—Pablo Neruda—

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frida kahlo to marty mcconnell…

leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses.
you make him call before
he visits. you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.

— Marty McConnell —

 

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we are everything in between…

we are everything in between
Your hands are wonderful, especially when their holding brings forth such
honeysuckle… sucking… goodness.

That I might be muse for such outpourings baffles me.
The certainty that I might be something more than less still eludes me
like insights newly born and swaddled in words still half-formed.

That you might allow me as witness to speak on our behalf, here
illuminates my shortcomings
as scribe to all that is profound and simple.

(There, I see it: your back swathed in silence.)

We are never more than what the other decides
and yet, we remain always as whispers,
as Pleasure that cannot keep a secret for long
and so, we are compelled.

In this mystery, I see you.
In this, we are met.
And so, are we lost.

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scylla and charybdis…

To grip your beautiful hard in my hand is to lick the bottom of an ice cream cone filled with my most favourite flavour. Ever. To watch your head fall back as my fingers disappear between my silky smooth folds is to feel my heart fall soft and free into my throat with each peaking roller coaster dive. To moan our pleasure in unison is to wake to the smell of fresh brewed coffee and bacon on the grill; it is home.  To return your reach and hold you is to dream a dream I once lived.
For a moment.

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mantra…

there was time then
when love meant falling
love meant there was in
and out of it, love meant
so many adjectives
we kept losing the noun
under it all, remember the scraping then?
of naked knees against unwanted moments.
now love, love has nothing ha! nothing
but itself
and we rise
rise rise again
into each now
into this centre
where valleys and peaks
lie together in negatives
against a sky
and every image is love
making itself
i cannot fall in love with you.
do you see?
now we rise and meet on a line
where love opens these countless petals
your fingers yes are there
inside of them
your toes too, each eyelash
all fragrant fresh and fruits filling us
a harvest like a storm
love rises into itself
through all this geometry
and in becoming
we touch as one
with what was missing all along,

(auhm mane padme om)

– E.K. –