From the bed
and sheets still warm,
before arcadian song
and flushed horizon,
when he sits upright
and breaths the waking kitchen
a rectangle of silvered basin
her silken curves rising
in mauve morning pastels.
Water falls from pewter faucet
arching rain melodious sustained,
kin to the purling stream
outside the panes
just beyond the trees.
More than soothing susurrations,
than the mimic of nature
bought indoors;
braided triceps
catching light
twined dunes of shadow
drawn
taut
before release.
Her hair hung
with slight curl
of waterfall
fallen
a splashing coda
in wavering bars
glinting
at times
shimmering.
His breath
came as waves
serene
insouciant,
as from a distance, his heart's
rhythmical syncopation,
as other;
as other than himself
nuanced
not a woman standing
tending dishes
washing glasses
bringing order
her seafaring signature
upon the cottage
the kitchen,
her scent fragrant
as apian meadows:
in soul's accord
not principle,
of lyric
not line,
to hallowed eye
beyond shoulder's
graceful curve
her diminutive tilt
and moony roundness
so recent of sheets
still warmed.
Finished
and spigot closed quiet
her feet bless the floor
till whole she fills
the rustic frame
and smile perceives
of dewy sunrise
upon golden lips
honeyed in suckle
a flooding warmth
of flesh eclipsed
in pulse's coursing stream.
I post the first draft here because the more I revise the more muddled my mind becomes and the more of a mess I seem to make:
ReplyDeletefirst version:
From the bed
when he sat upright,
he could see into the kitchen
framed she was by the door
standing before the sink.
Water ran from the faucet
a pleasant sound, fluid,
moving as the stream
outside the window just beyond
the trees.
But the flow was more than
just soothing susurrations,
more than the mimic of nature
bought indoors;
evidenced by the back of her arm
catching light
flexing patterns of shadow
morphing as rope pulled
tight and taut
then relaxed.
Her hair too, which hung
with a slight curl
of waterfall fallen
shinning in bars
glinting
at times shimmering.
His breathing too, in the watching
became as waves
with scene and sound
such to hear his heart
syncopate
as other
as other than himself
had noticed
not a woman standing
tending to dishes
washing glasses
bringing order
and in order, her signature
upon the cottage
the kitchen
her scent upon air
as flowers upon the meadow
this was all here,
but according to soul
not principle
to ear
not line
to the eye that saw
beyond the curve of her
shoulder
the tilt of her back
and the roundness divine
so recently of sheets
still warmed.
And when she finished
and the spigot closed
and her feet came forth
to fill the frame
she saw as sunrise
a smile
and of lips the opening day
she would kiss
and a warmth
greater than flesh
she would feel.
Yes, but I miss her feet blessing the floor.
ReplyDeleteAh, but I love both these versions, and though I could take first one and then the other and highlight particular lines or phrases that are especially captivating, some in one that may be missing in the other, to be richer or poorer in the moment for it, but it is the wholeness of these poems that is so appealing, they seem to go on forever (in the very best of ways), an infinite quality to them so to speak or at least the suggestion that they could, that you could, present in this manner eternally, elongating every detail, every moment and one cannot help but wonder and comprehend, and admire and wish for this kind of attention and appreciation, for most of us are seldom quiet enough, I think, to see the wholeness of the singular frames. These poems are as I read them akin to something you wrote in another recent post about music and lyrics, not in what might potentially be taken, but in the way that the wholeness is greater than the meaning of each part, much like a particular part that I can see at this moment as I type into this box a pleasant sound, fluid/moving as the stream, such pleasant images washing over the soul, constant as waves, seemingly endless though there is an end even in the ending it stops not. If I had to chose one word for these poems, it would be invigorating. They make me feel embraced. Beautiful work.
ReplyDeleteOne last thing, as I read, I watched you write, I imagined, as though I knew, that you typed this, as it is written, in a stream, in minutes, each line almost in rhythm with your breathing, an intake and a release holding each, no more required. Said for no other reason than simply to say that though the limitlessness of your talent has me watching in awe post upon post, that it is, is limitless, of this we are made very much aware of with every post. If that made sense. :-D Loved watching you paint.