How Much Does Love Weigh?

 

—Poetry by Melissa Lemay, Lancaster, PA

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

A WALTZ IN BLUE AND RED

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,”

—Sylvia Plath, “Mad Girl’s Love Song”

I wonder why people are so consumed
with anger and hate: hating each other,
hating the way things are, hating religion,
institutions, politics, political figures,
corporations, sects, sex, affiliations,
associations, denominations, seasons,
the weather, people driving cars, Trump,
Harris, Gaza, Palestinians and Israelis,
Russians, Asians, African Americans…

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;


Nothing to see here, nothing to do, hear,
in the silence and the blackness and the
stillness of my own heart. Do you feel it?
Poetry has a way of transferring by osmosis
the feelings that people are missing, and
the feelings that I was born with too much of.
If you go into it with an open mind, those
feelings will reach out and pull on you,
change you, transmute you into dreams.

I lift my eyes and all is born again.

Back to normal, to disappointment,
discouragement, no courage left, tired,
hungry, angry, lonely, impoverished,
after all, love of money is the root of
all evil. That’s a euphemism for saying
half of all people are soulless. The you
that is me, forming in the universe’s
womb to be buried and rise from
the dead, a modern-day Lazarus.


(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Perhaps this is a dream and I live in it.
There are black pieces stuck to my
insides that grow when I behave dis-
gracefully. They are floating and dancing
and spinning into combustion. It’s
important where I lay my head. Once
the fire gets inside it, then there is no
hope left. In the meantime, I see the
light over the hill and I keep running toward it.

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red.


(Note: this form is a Glosa; the italicized lines are 

from the aforementioned poem by Sylvia Plath.)

 

 

 

 

IRIDESCENT

In space between love songs
and where your fingers touched,
lie the echos
that wake me in the night—


I didn’t have folded iridescent wings,
I wonder if you saw them.
Osmanthus flowers cover our eyes,
we sit to drink tea.

Your face, like
steam rising from a hot mug,
dances through what we can see,
and then disappears.

Is it there?
How much does love weigh?
And what does it look like,
when someone never smiles?

 

 

 

 Arboretum Presents White Dogwood
—Art by Alma Thomas (Courtesy of Melissa Lemay)

Love Comes by Looking
—Alma Thoma

 

MEDITATION


 

I see you scattered along the walls,
linked pores gather you
into themselves, and everywhere

I look,

His brilliance glorified in vine
and fruit and trodden path.

And speaking for the lusterless,
no need to tear it all apart,
to strip it down to phloem


to see its beauty.


The lichen covers, glowing green,
and spreading in(to) everything,
there is a light.

Will you look?

 

 

 

 

I BORROWED AN OLD WOMAN FROM
THE NURSING HOME 


Was out the door before anyone noticed she was
gone
She couldn’t remember her name or the date
But she most certainly could whip up a plate


I looked diligently for one who’d fit the bill
Not just any random old geriatric would do
If I was going to pull off my brilliant plan
And end up with this month’s check in hand


The real Ginger died oh, about twelve years ago
You know how the old story goes
We were drinking some beers and snorting
cocaine
You know what they say, no pain no gain!


Anyway, no more about that, I might incriminate
myself
So, I borrowed a woman, she seemed in good
health
I don’t remember if I ever caught her name
Fooled the Inspector General all the same

I did her a favor if you ask me
If it wasn’t for me, she’d have never been on tv
When the news reporters came for the story
Now we have to bring her back every six months

 

 

 

 

 

HYMNS, NOR EPIGRAPHS (A Quatern)


These terrible warm-blooded hands


are no good for writing hymns, nor


epigraphs, nor are they good for


loving you the way you deserve.



 

I’ve made so many mistakes with


these terrible warm-blooded hands


that I can’t erase, but I learn


to live with them the best I can.

 



I walk through the day, surefooted


now more than I’ve ever been, but


these terrible warm-blooded hands


leave me nothing sure in the end.



 

I’ll wait, however long—one last


look upon your face… til then hold


what I can, though colder now, in
t

hese terrible warm-blooded hands.

 

 

 

 

IN SPACE


In space between heaviness
and unbearable lightness,
songs sing themselves to me.

From under shroud of darkness
darker than darkness,
I hear angels whispering.

Pulling at whispered words,
trying to make sense of
most inexplicable things.

Perchance down I will fall,
into the blackness, to
awaken, remembering.

 

 

 

 

ENTHUSIASM  (A First-Letter Acrostic)


Every single thing has magic in it—
No matter how small.
The lines of power, stretching pole to pole,
Harboring electricity, well, they’re exciting.
Unattended aluminum conductors—distributing
Stupendous supply of electricity to you and
I—insouciant. But they keep birds!
Alighting, twittering, forming rows and
Singing, perched high atop their electrical lookouts.
Maybe they’ve the right idea—twitter and sing.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

FOREVER
—Melissa Lemay

“Every star was once darker than the night before
it awoke.”          —Dejan Stojanovic



 

In darkness darker than


the night, you met


me there; you shone
l

ight and you were


light. This illness can


not live in darkness,


this humanness we share.



 

And now, this light,


there is nothing that


can extinguish it, not


dark, nor death, for

your light, your life


shines out for all


the world to see.



 

You have awakened me;


I will live forever.

____________________

In 2025, Melissa Lemay will be editing a new journal, called Collaborature, which celebrates collaborative writing. It will be released Jan. 3; see  collaborature.blogspot.com/p/submit.html/. Congratulations, Melissa, on your new project, and thanks for today’s fine poetry!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Every single thing 

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