in August
for John Keats
I didn't die unrequited.
I took a wife in August.
My wife was wearing silky white shoulders
holding out her boney arms held
my name close to her spine.
I knew that there was a warmth
wherein that carved out broken shell
I was melting in the silver sun.
In July she let me sing
a song to every single
gorgeous figure in granite
every star that was bestowed to us
in the Medi-terrain, fall to their
knees pointing their palms to
the North where the medieval
tricksters still dance on top of
Stonehenge and tell stories
And every turning ball is still
just floating around the sun.
She spake, the beauteous, she
my wife in August. Forgiving,
and for only six months was
she mine, and now she mourns.
My lovely white goddess, she
Gushing a luscious sob.
Painful veil of oblivion seals her eyes
She strives to search wherefore I am so sad,
melancholy numbs her limbs;
she sits upon the grass, moaning.
She burns up in the sun.
She, who once had wings.
Oh, Hyperion, you unfinished gem,
She still sobs
You went on for ages, and now
nothing is left.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
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Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
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driving home from the farmer's market- I can't see anything- through this storm- I come home to sleep- with you-rest in your arms fu...
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like me- it serves as a question as well as an appropriately foolish letter in bad company it only teams up with words like yodel, ...
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motionless sap. ogling your shadow, you have much thinking to do. has the potassium kicked you in the arse yet-and got you going? you a...
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Under a blanket it was at high altitudes in love or nauseous? I once held his hand his touch was so soothing-but with a lion's face. and...
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nipped at the ankles which is how I wander through life sometimes I must be pushed through a door finally opened after years of knock...
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Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
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and now that the anger is gone there may be a few more glimpses like looking out of the window through a thin veil of silk. a look in...
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confession is all: it is what my poetry is, and that is my life.
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sex object. not afraid of the words. I've used many objects for the sake of sex. in fact my body has been pretty disposable- I don't...
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it's not possible. I think the problem must be- too much love and hate.
Intense imagery! Did I see some sadness too?
ReplyDeleteVery deeply felt for someone and hence the strong expression!
Hugs xox
Keats had so much sadness in his life, and so did his young wife after his passing. I'm glad that was captured so well. Thank you!
ReplyDeletewelcome, superb work...
ReplyDeleteyour words have wings, keep them flying.
smiles.
A++
Thanks Jingle :)!
ReplyDelete