Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Those Rhythmic Waves
of silken fabric—
tossed over the edge of the bed—
gown in waves of fading shimmer
—waves and waves of memory’s
THESE BLUE WAVES BREAKING
These blue waves lift forever to the shore
as if practicing time in suspension.
They pull in from the eternal horizon;
the dark rocks wait for their fall.
The sound of their breaking is just about
to be released.
The turbulence of blue churns with impatience;
the layers of wet light glow upon the sand.
The smell of the sea air comes through the
tang of memory.
The gulls have just lifted away with their
The sky’s last light is slipping and slipping
into time’s darkness.
And in that darkness, the waves finally
and silently break across the picture frame,
right up the tangible edge of my wet shoes.
HER MARCELLED HAIR
She may have been twenty-eight.
About 1932. Perhaps Seattle.
Coming home from school
I found her
sitting on the couch
dressed up in her new dress
of crêpe de Chine
shiny as night’s
soft amber lights
of places she had been…
she smiled at me
with a smile that was her own
to make a declaration of herself
sitting there, posed,
like a glamour girl…
a movie star…
her hair just done,
those rhythmic waves
tight-pressed to her small head
which she held
in awe of her…
I hated this one immediately : bisque with
painted-on marcelled hair and fixed brown eyes.
It looked at me, its blond face featureless.
But I said thank you and sat it on a chair where it
slipped sideways and went rigid with not belonging.
I don’t remember ever touching it again.
WHEREVER THEY LOVE
(After "Couple on the Shore" by Edvard Munch)
they love—no way to return.
The melancholy beaches
are lost to winter now.
They remember what was true:
the dark gulls overhead—
by slow, untiring wings.
The gray world moves
in endless, white waves
that try to cover what is lost.
There is no other—
no other anything they want and
cannot keep. So they embrace—
with every tender, vanished place
reclaimed in resurrected love.
THE GREEN WOMAN
How serenely she wears
the art of the painter’s hand
who painted her all green—
or is it the deception of light
turning her into
a numinous map of the sea
that follows her contours
with shapes and symbols
of intricate design—
even to the closed mouth
and eyelids, the hair sculpted
into deep waves: how
ever swim back now
to the real
and lose all this… how
ever clothe, and hide
the breathing design of her body,
so perfectly stained…
Sundown. A long empty beach.
Thinning cries of gulls.
Slow shushing of the waves
—only my footprints on the gray,
wet sand. I am singing to myself.
My memory house is somewhere
up ahead with all its lights on,
but I am not late.
The waves rush up, and back,
leaving small tickles of foam
and gold flecks on my feet.
The slow, circling gulls
scold my presence.
But I do not hurry, or mind
their scolding. This is my time
to own all this—even them.
(first pub. in Poets' Forum Magazine)
TORN TOWARD LIGHT
You utter scream after scream into the vast silence
and watch the sound waves travel
distance after distance;
how still everything becomes now,
as if everything has ended—
even the light waves.
—Medusa, with thanks to Joyce Odam for today's poems and pix! Our new Seed of the Week is Self-Deceptions; send your musings on those lovely lies you tell yourself to firstname.lastname@example.org