after Lady Suo (11th-12th cent.)
That early fall night
When I woke to find
Your sleeping cheek (warm weight
On my shoulder) may never
But the dream is nearly enough.
photograph by Ani Eleuterio
That spring night I spent
Pillowed on your arm
Never really happened
Except in a dream.
Unfortunately I am
Talked about anyway.
-Lady Suo (11th-12th cent.), tr. Kenneth Rexroth.
One of my favorite poems in every season.
The easy thing would be
to hate you: the smear
of your dull pencil is enough
to sigh my breathing.
You printed your name,
careful and proud, believing
you'd want it forever. I know
this book is brittle
from an avalanche of tissues. I know
you wanted blackberries
but planted only thorns.
These pages are stretched, bowed and tired,
this spine is nearly surrendered.
The hard part--and this
you even know--is arriving
at the endpapers, where (you
know) I will forgive you.
photograph by Signora Oriente
"When the first baby laughed for the first time, the laugh broke into a thousand pieces, and they all went skipping about...and that was the beginning of fairies." J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan and Wendy
And what was there to laugh about,
in this prehistoric night? Would the sound echo,
or would the black's nap suck it up
like so much spilled champagne?
And who was it that came along next,
and lifted the star-clad child?
Some vast nurse, who waltzing, swaying,
lullaby muttering, said,
Baby, it's not that funny.
photograph by Tamera
...Just checking in. I hope everyone is well out there in the ether. I've been completely devoid of any creative spark lately. Am I the only one? Is it astrological? Astronomical? Barometric pressure? Your guess is as good as mine.
In any case, I've joined a writing exchange and with luck that will prod me into my old, incessantly spewing self.
Can you believe summer is gone? It seems like a year has gone by these past three months.
photograph by Cari Ann Wayman
You should know it doesn’t count
If you cheated, and you should know
We know you did. Who but a time traveler
Would sweat until the filament formed;
Who but the one who has known silver dawn
Would bother to burgle one trip
To the moon? There is no sport
To this brilliance. Your fizzing chariot
Awaits in the alley:
Be gone, and leave us our fire.
more on alleged intellectual poacher Thomas Alva Edison here
watch "Le Voyage dans la Lune" here