Musing
Black inside the red red rages-
White the light your eyes have shed
Unholy, and therefore, human-
I may have seen a glimpse of you.
Strange you make the poison sweeter
And take the edge off of the blade,
Find a way to wound that's newer,
And make the sickness in you spread.
By taking the breath you inspire-
Twisting the knife as you do
With a beautiful smile at your worst
That makes it pleasant to be slain.
Only with pain do I feel you
Close enough to nearly see right past
All those surfaces you've made
To hide yourself from yourself-
And were I as close to you as you are,
I might hide myself, too.
Playing Ophelia
What songs and snatches came that catches voice
And lyrics so? I was half-mad-but could
Not * quite * go mad. I could break into tears
at a whisper and storm with off-hand rage-
only in the softest voice that I knew.
Dying was what I demanded-as if
That was the best end to tragic longing.
I might have liked a manic public scene,
Or made a lovely portrait for Millais.
But all the same I could not * quite * go mad,
Yet only acted a drama out loud-
Played- out to entertain myself.
Aphasia
If the words at last should leave me,
How would I know myself?
What thoughtform would the next step be-
To make myself make sense?
As if I do right now.
Honesty (for the person who doubted mine)
Grief, I felt that, yes,
Loss, shaking, and other things-
But it was not all you.
Funny that you should not know,
But death and stress, and life,
As always, these held me down-
Fear of the future,
And other things,
And if it seemed I was alone, I was-
But better that than to be
Disbelieved to my face.
Better to watch you doubting me,
From somewhere further off,
Than have you in my face
Telling me what to believe.
Light
Happens with the best, the worst,
The breaking of a trust
Between the one and all-
Something must be split.
And so the man must cease to be,
Or begin to find his soul.
It is a crux that comes
When the father of a man is gone
And bitter gall is the wine-
Could you change your tears to that?
No, the kingdoms of this world declined,
What is left is mere son of man-
Or rather-woman-born.
And magic that was not learned here
Must be learned in the grave.
There is a death that must be seen
before the light,
but once that light is known,
the fracture is repaired-
the one, the all, reconciled-
When at last you know you are a stranger,
You learn to save yourself.
Artist in F sharp (Same as car horns, actually, meaningless trivia)
My never is not your never.
My never sounds once, base, punctuated forever
With a question mark and a little laugh,
I can still ask-"Never?"
Neither confirming nor denying.
Was it a question or and answer?
My never must have some possibilities
Even I don't know about.
Grave Song (take it as you will)
She should have a grave digger's name-
A not-unusual coincidence. A shovel pen
Flinging up the clods of her thoughts-
She buried herself, you see.
The witch-hair doll-face lover of death
Has been more than enough encouragement
Not to see myself in my personae-
While I can take the revealing line
Right below the modest decoupage,
My bared breast is possibly fake.
But still I think of her,
And that other singing sister-
Can one sing oneself to madness,
Call up a spell with words
That can not be undone-
And croon oneself to sleep with
Hell's own lullabye?
I'd rather uncast the curse
And sing to life what sleepers I could,
Even if they wake just to quiet me.
Love is that thing with fur
There was a man with bottle-green eyes
Who taught to all the terms of his love:
That to love him was to love perfectly,
That to love perfectly was to enjoy
An endless lasting hunger,
And to hunger without end-
Which meant never to be having,
And never to be had.
In me he saw the mistake of flesh,
That I was ripe to know the sins
Of all the closeness of having,
Being without thinking.
It offended his esthetic sense.
Poets may sing of perfect love,
And crave an icy muse whose touch would burn,
But I burn to touch.
I scorn all perfect love,
And would not bear that equal pain.
Perhaps so few things are perfect,
But it seems to me a crippling thing
To cage a passion that will never fly
Or cry out loud and hear no echo-
Perfect is perfectly alone.
I suppose I'm not a muse, or even
A lovely thing, and so the right of love-
The rite of love, I ask,
To both have and to keep.
Two Sides of A Break
Can't it be another way?
I found myself
And lost myself
In your arms.
Is there nothing left to say?
I made myself
And broke myself
Before you.
It ends without my asking,
Without my saying.
I can not have it another way;
There is too much I'd never say.
****
I waited like my breath would kill me-
I'd choke from wanting loose.
But you would not let me go.
I grew-I'd been a child
And you were there-but I'm tired.
I hoped you would grow, too.
But all you grew was friendship-
Not love.
I won't look back in anger-
Just regret we couldn't end it sooner-
Before it felt like this.
A little religion
Together we'll believe that your word is final-
One prophet, one disciple, in all, one.
With even occasional heretics, duly chastised,
I believe. Believe is the word-
My faith in a candle, shunning the shadow cast.
But that shadow must be me-
All that's left behind as you shine.
But just recall, there is no bitterer soul
Than one recent apostate-
And some sudden new sect springing
May take to nails with its complaints.
Touch
Could your hands touch me just enough
That I could feel you,
In them, moving me?
I want hands and lips, here and there,
And then, to know why I waited,
Only dreamed-of touch.
Even when I do not wake
And have not thought of you,
Something in you is real to me-
Still waiting to be touched.