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Monday, June 08, 2009

Certainties of Hunger

Learning to Read Meaning in Poetry

When we met, you said
most poems don't make sense
to me
. I didn't agree.
You just needed definition.
To be clarified in angst,
touched with hunger --

to know what it is
to be read out aloud,
and have the tongue
make the mind linger as
fingers fumble out the vowels
from your lips.

To have your air caressing consonants
sucked from its pockets
revealing a thousand hidden metaphors:
with the bounce of our voices
thrusting against the other,

yelling stanza after stanza
into the noisy air --
ear candy for our hearts
as we read to each other
so slowly, to have this poetry
recite you like a mantra,

losing everything you ever were
in a brighter burning flame
and have you scream
I love these sounds --
to give you meaning,
and a sense of the same.

__________________________

Only Let the Worthy Watch the Burning

Let no bored bystander
open you, if he will
leave you half read, like
a book of old poetry
thrown away in a prickly hedge --
for the soft sun and its thorns
to cut your pages into shards
of lit hay, with no one
there to watch the burning.

His kisses must rain softly
at first to melt your earth,
to give birth to an aching
for a week long of rain.
Like a beautiful summer day
in need of a good wash down --
it should pave the way
for heavy downpours and
thunder-claps of rumbling.

After the storm, let him not be
complacent to your silence, or
think it a stage of recovering.
His touch must peak in,
every now and then some,
to check up on you,
and make you lift your head
as though dizzy
from the delirium.

__________________________

Making Love in the Kitchen

You watch me cook; sweaty
digits, these busy fingers
meshed in spices, aromas
making love in the kitchen

amongst the root ginger
and loose bags of mint tea,
a rich, perpetual kneading
of smells in a musky den.

Under fingernails and skin,
wrapped in a dusty lace
of enamoured scent, nostrils
tickled by golden-sealed sweat,

breaking brand new containers
open, bought for the play
of ingredients that melt
and loosen out in heat,

you watch me working
in a hot seat, pushing
and pulling meaty dough
to leaven out in the oven,

in a place that sustains
life in all its certainties,
we beat out a measure
for a hunger as robust

as a young stallion, and
once fed, as fleeting
as its immunity
from starving again.

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© CC License 2004-14. Unless otherwise stated all poetry, prose and art are the original work of the blog owner.