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Monday, May 31, 2010

TO SEE HER AGAIN, A Love Poem after the Verse of Gabriella Mistral

A Love Poem after the Verse of Gabriela Mistral

And never, never more to see her form,
Not even a glimpse of her,
Not in the nights filled with trembling stars,
Or in the face of dawn’s first light,
Or in the blazing sun, whose heat
Discolors sidewalks at noon?

Never, never, again, to witness her walking
Upon the kicked up dirt of the bridle path,
Along the river underneath the shadow of trees,
Never, her body
Against the white washed walls of the causeway?

I wonder if she remembers the bridge, the one
Topping the low-rise concrete dam,
I told her then that nothing had sufficient strength,
That no material exists to control the overflow,
Is there nothing to contain my flood of feelings for her?

How else might I relate my mood?
Ask the pertinent question?

Never, never, again, to eye her fleshly presence,
Entangled, standing in the tresses of the forest,
Or stooped to gather strawberries
Picked from rows and rows of fruit in the truck-farm field?

I call out to her as the night envelops me,
I forget I walk big-city sidewalks.

My cries echo, repeat my anguish,
Through the empty parking lots and the city canyons,
A voice that registers with no one;
Over and over, I hear myself implore her to return to me;
Should I not, and is it not better to forget her?

Oh, no! To see her again,
Not important, makes no difference, where,
It does not matter when
-- My, my glory of heaven! --
If today it is within a deep, blue patch of sky,

Or perhaps tomorrow in the vortex,
Within the swirling ocean power,
That force which carries all kinds of debris,
When a ship and all its glory sinks,
Down, down into the Sailors’ Locker,
And image of her surfaces when all else disappears
And the scene’s sole illuminate is moon light.

Oh, no! To see her again, and to view her in the moment
When the volcano opens
And I am before the lurid, red hell-mouth,
And witness its demons’ roaring spew of steam and ash.

Yet I do not flinch, I am steadfast,
I have no fear of misadventure. I look into the fire.
I do not plug my ears, I listen,
And from earth’s deep, distant core,
Amidst the hurly-burly of all the explosions,
Within the lightning claps and clamor,
The mad noise of boulders being thrown
I hear it! I hear her name, Cheri, Cheri!

Yes, I admit her deviltry besets me.

And to be with her in all the spring times,
And in all the winters,
Entwined in paroxysm of mighty-muscle clench,
While I suck up the blood of her neck,
And spot it all over,
Make it black and blue with the power of my caresses.

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