this art…
In your light I learn how to love.
In your beauty, how to make poems.
You dance inside my chest where no-one sees you,
but sometimes I do,
and that sight becomes this art.
– Rumi –
in plain view…
ever so gently…
a girl can dream…
here we are…
I cannot fix on the hour, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation.
It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.
– Jane Austen –
opportunity knocks…
“We should cultivate the ability to say no to activities
for which we have no time, no talent,
and which we have no interest or real concern.
If we learn to say no to many things,
then we will be able to say yes to things that matter most.”
– Roy Blauss –
final soliloquy of the interior paramour…
Light the first light of evening, as in a room
In which we rest and, for small reason, think
The world imagined is the ultimate good.
This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.
It is in that thought that we collect ourselves,
Out of all the indifferences, into one thing:
Within a single thing, a single shawl
Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth,
A light, a power, the miraculous influence.
Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,
A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.
Within its vital boundary, in the mind.
We say God and the imagination are one…
How high that highest candle lights the dark.
Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.
– by Wallace Stevens –
it’s time…
long hair…
long hair swishing on bare skin
feels like a poem
that’d make you blush
an exhale that pulses
invites
dimpled skin to rise and greet
the heat of a dawning thought
a promise
a sway of hips readying themselves
a curtain parting
a look over the shoulder
(without ever looking)
hand
tongue
eyes
languorous
being watched
wanted
feather-soft need
my back
my neck
goosebumps and nipples
satin thighs
in the middle of the bed
being held
offering everything
like
a promise
in other words
erotic
joy-filled
in the way
desire
beauty
love
can be
– by Lola Moi –
