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| Small Pear Tree in Blossom Arles, France, circa 1888 Vincent van Gogh |
fictional-izing a paying of respect to a former lover
my poems demand pictures
of all we've left behind
while together...
-----------------
(in the old river town
we grew up in,
there is a small fruit tree,
where we swung
as kids and she
is buried, now)
-----------------
do scents crawl then tell
of art and memory
with a mind full
of brushstroke gangs
do smells stage exits,
entrances, cuts and bangs...
are fades into rains,
our seasons in grains...?
I sat with a coffee and buttered beignet
watching crowds thin themselves
of a midnight gleaned yesterday
I ask a stranger for a cigarette
hadn't decided how I have
got to get to the end
of the poem with her just yet...
'tis more than thirst driving me now
lust hungers, tombstone quietly,
insisting we start to go, with
our eyes inside our noses, roses for apples,
it may indeed be, we who would be,
the way pear trees remembered, the sounds
our mouths made, when we first
stained our souls with our names...
(fini)
EJR ©
I love that painting. Your poem matches it in beauty, depth, soul, and powdered sugar.
ReplyDeleteThank you for letting me gush over your work. It gives me something to look forward to, that abstract artistic fix I need every day. But I can stop at any time. Believe it or not, I do know how to properly key a lock box.
tisket-ing tasket-ing, I used to spin those jacks for hours on end when a-visiting my aunt, in her old house, with her shiny wooden floors, so smooth and ready to receive the spin were they...that I used to say that they must have been milled from a grove of coriolis effect-ed trees...
ReplyDeleteGorgeous. The imagery. The exposure to new info. Your head. And Jax. I love her. I'll post a vid when I get my blog fixed. It's like my bedroom. My treehouse. My tongue in groove, as it were. It bust visually fit the mood of my present personhood, or it simply cannot be revealed (revi(a)led) as me.
Deletefictional, I zing ... eye zing ... I sing
ReplyDeleteI'm sure we're all much more fascinating when we're concoctions of the imagination.
And anytime a girl has been loved, it's been because she's a form-her lover. He forms her; she forms him. No one's ever truly real.
DeleteI will write more when I'm not on my phone. But you are over-the-moon brilliant. Like that part about the eyes inside the noses ... ayes/yeses in nos. Seriously, it's a shame to live in a world that is too busy to pick apart fine poetry. You could have a thousand people read this, and almost all of them would miss the nuances. I count myself richly blessed to be in the small number who knows how to really read poetry, especially after having discovered you. One of the few gifted abstract poets I've come across via dverse.
ReplyDelete... that being said, I'm not going to tolerate this gap between postings. Get on it, or I'm gone. ~But maybe that's what you want. Ma questa è la vita non è vero, essendo indesiderata.
ReplyDelete(Google Translate is such a fun toy.)