
art by Frances Strange
i could never write for You –
epics of (cl)amorous grandeur,/
or golden, placating sonnets
that line each keystone of poetic canon./
but for You, Siren, i shall sing of a/
Love that escapes, like Water/
bursting loudly through the/
weathered, iron gates,/
of language, temporal,/
bound to the mettle that is/
Life, its confined mess, as/
its voice echoes, rattles, protests at/
rusted bars.
but Ours belongs not in the cage: of versed lines: and rehearsed recitals,: the oratorios of aged, sage old men: who have attempted to pen: Our loving
Silence.
that is the caress of cool, dewy finger tips,
on a sleeping, fevered forehead
or
the kiss of a warm wave, lapping against
tentative, daring toes
pushing gently, to open these
Ancient doors.
for Ours is of
the ebb and Hush.
the quiet yawn of waking
together
in the middle of the day,
when Love’s waters
stream in through dark curtains,
like a pink afternoon light
and bathe, drown
Us
in the noiseless deep
of the Pull
and the Tide,
of Climax
and Release
and like Our lovers’ conversation: the intercourse between: climax and release: We, as vast and as infinite as water,: belong not in the realm of:
Words;
but somewhere,
in an ocean/
Beyond/
and the truth is, my Dear,/
i could never write for you, least –
of Love that is murky with/
Noise and words/
For that would be/
Dishonest,/
and Our Love is pure; it must remain untouched/
by the polluting invention of Man/
For such is the natural state of
Water.
The shape of the text kind of reminds me of the shape of the body in the picture. Very interesting style. I like the contradictions throughout, like the tentative and daring toes and pushing gently to open ancient doors.
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