SEEKING A MUSE

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SEEKING A MUSE,
Personal Classified Advertisement


I know what to do!
I am not at a loss, despondent, or down and out,
Not at all! I've got plenty of options.
I'll run an ad on Craigslist,
Or a personal in one of those free weeklies.

Hey, there are plenty dating sites on the web!

I'll write, Single, White, Male,
Looking for a muse,
A girl to inflame my verse,
Make my heart sing a wondrous refrain.

I'll say she must be educated and smart,
Tall, slim, and good with money,
A brunet, who has a pleasant smile,
And whose buttocks own an exquisite form.

I'll require her voice to possess subtle timbre,
Her smell to be sweet and, above all,
I'll demand that she be
Disciplined in work and habit,
Someone to put me to bed early,
And early to arise, a woman who might
Qualify suitable mother for a child or two.

Oh! Did I forget to mention?
I want large brown eyes and an olive complexion.

So don't think, don't believe for a moment,
That you are elemental, like some sustenance crucial
To happiness and breathe, for you are not. Ha!
You see how easily you can be replaced!

Get it straight! I know what to do.
Honest! It's not that big of a deal.
I'll run an ad on Craigslist,
Or a personal in one of those free weeklies.

Hey there are plenty dating sites on the web!

IMPOSSIBLE DREAM, A Lover's Question

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IMPOSSIBLE DREAM,
A Lover’s Question        

I have an astounding dream to report.

It has me running down a long hall in the semi-darkness

With a key in my hand. It's a cylindrical key,

And on its end it has a single, protruding notch,

The type of a key used to wind an antique clock.

Mounted to the wall at the end of my run stands

A giant, three-dimensional cartoon heart.

Although hand-painted, it has a natural color.

It seems the skin of a Red Delicious apple.

On the right at the top of this wondrous heart

A gold-metal strike plate sets up over against

An aperture, the channel; I wonder if it leads

To the lock that might open, release your heart?

Have I the key? Or do I dream only to wake,

Awaken to nightmare day of awful longing and ache?

Have I lost my mind? Has logic betrayed me?

Do I confuse dream wish with reality?

Darling, answer me soon! Does my deep desire

Verge on truth? Will anxiety cease?

The promise of a new, peaceful kingdom

Is it to be fulfilled, here, in the affirmative today?

Now I stand before you, You, Love, my higher power,

And the congregates sense the blasphemy;

They whisper calumnies.

They say that I am my father’s son,

“He is the boy from the hardware store!

By whose authority has he the right to reveal,

Who does he believe -- just who might he think he is

When he revels in his midnight imaginings?”

And me, their belligerence,

The hostility of the locals does not concern me,

Not a whit, though they rise up

And ready to condemn me.

I pray ... I might have definite answer,

That I am prophet in this house,

That I may begin this, my public ministry, positive,

Carry hope for life anew,

And have news extraordinary, good, for all to hear.

Down a space eclipsed in semi-darkness, I run.

I have a key in my hand. It's cylindrical;

A single notch protrudes at its end.

It seems the kind of key that winds an antique clock.

Darling, please, your answer!

Have I the key to open your heart,

Or do I dream the impossible dream?

SWEET TALK

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SWEET TALK


Out in Arizona my Dad grew roses.
He embraced the great merit,
Loved to say,
How he enjoyed cultivating his own garden.

That spot he tended along side the house,
It was the love of his retirement.

I saw those roses disporting,
Performing and they were real pretty,
Showing off their tightly petaled spiraling centers.
Seems they climbed the trellises just to flaunt,
Dazzle the onlooker with the grace of their towering ascent,
And what beauty in their many colors,
Their outfits boasting red, and pink,
And the truest bright of yellow,  
While others bore garb,
Which were infussed with hues of gold and orange.

With that said, and knowlingly I set to rivalry with nature,
What once for me had remained secret and unspoken,
This time I’ll express my feelings loud and clear,
Now one and all will hear.

Those roses never flowered like you.
No! They never looked the way,
The way you looked tonight, darling.

No doubt some may find this verse coy,
No more than borrowed phrase and imagery,
Notions common in the language of the heart,
Yet I swear to it. I tell the truth,
The same as if I stood in court of law
My right hand raised, the left upon the Holy Book.

By solemn oath I declare,
My flattery means to please your heart,
The same as would the wrappings on any special gift.

So help me, honey, know these words, 
My terms of endearment, honest and sincere.

ETTA, 1958

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 ETTA, 1958


He had twisted his ankle.
His foot was swollen and it ached.
It hurt to the degree that he could no longer concentrate.
He had lost the capacity to figure.
His mind no longer able to grasp even very simple things,
His eyes appeared vacant, as if in a trance.

He was young and he kissed the back of her hand,
He kissed her about the face,
He kissed her eyelids,
And he rested his lips at the base of her neck.

He had kissed the skin all-over both her shoulders.

He and she were minors, and their ardency,
Its possible consequence worried their parents.

There was no question about the boy being strong.

Within the warmth of a late August, summer night,
The couple walked hand in hand along a dirt path.
They followed a trail along side truck-farm fields,
Alternate tracts of cabbage and corn,
Which then became a shortcut,
A line through an expanse of crabgrass scrub.

The land rose a few inches,
Slightly above the counter-sunk, worn-earth channel,
Suggesting a beaten path, a safe passage,
Perhaps once a native American footway,
Of an age older than most would dream.

They headed toward an old Dutch Elm.
The tree grew beside the muddy bank of a creek,
Whose occasional flow emptied west into a river,
A river the early French settlers had named Des Plaines.

They thought that they might sail away upon the waters.

The Milky Way seemed to stretch out across
The vault of deep space more like some
Will-o-wisp patch of terrestrial weather
Than the starry edge of our own galaxy.

Yet more, much more than the taste of salt --
The tiny sweat above her brows, more than how
Moisture had collected and now had formed
Fetchingly to glisten upon her shoulders,

It was a night whose such awesome, absolute clarity
Enhanced a once-in-a-life-time, white light streak,
At its end a mighty, bright flash erased the sky.

Though now near midnight, all nature cast a quick shadow.

The day's heat permeated the late summer evening.
They were standing before the great Dutch Elm,
The tree beside the muddy bank of the creek,
The small, occasional water emptying west into the river,
The river the early French settlers had named Des Plaines.

In a momentary all-over illumination,
The youths saw their silhouette.
They were merged as one.
They saw themselves fused into a single shade.

A snap of thunder followed, and, there, in the instant,
All of heavenly influence fell upon their embrace.

And when they turned and gazed upon each other,
Before either of them spoke a word,
They had come to believe that
In a book all their days had been written.
The verse which enfolds telling of this one moment
Had already been composed.

Though still no gathering of the waters into the seas,
Prior to Earth's becoming the name for dry land,
Likewise before the glory of first morning or first sun's set,
Even before the beginning when the Spirit of God
Announced light and illuminated the darkness,

They had been granted affection.

Before the beginning, 
Before the Lord brought into being 
The blazing brilliance across the infinite deep,
And called it good,
They had been blessed with ever grateful remembrance.

This one moment had already been written.

RENDEZVOUS

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RENDEZVOUS*


Though it seems that we have grown distant,
I am readily able to reach out and touch you.

My feelings steadfast, my heart apparent,
Even that this verse fails to mention your name.


Albeit we are housed in poor mortal frame,
Some one in a future time will think of us.

However history conspires to hush our story,
Destiny speaks and reveals to world
The book in which all our days were already written.



*A original love poem adapted from a verse by Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Balkhī, also known as Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī, and more popularly in the English-speaking world simply as Rumi. He was a 13th-century Persian poet.



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SAD*

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SAD*

Etta,  you do not seem to care if I am ill.

Remember last week, when a pinched nerve
Kept me in bed for most of the day?
I could not walk,
I began to panic, and
Believed my back might never be right again.

And your response, terrible, cold and unmoving,
You declared what in my heart was already apparent;
You told me that you had no aspirations,
That if I sought a Florence Nightingale,
I had barked up the wrong tree.

It hurt most, when after a moment’s reflection,
I came to believe your response sounded rehearsed.

It had a tone, which seemed practiced.

You had actually precluded any concern.

I had became lost to pain in an otherwise robust frame,
And you had shown no worry, commiserated not a bit.

Now that my health returns, and I am totally recovered,
I must wonder, no matter how many times
You have claimed that you love me,
If my being ill had not worried you in the least,
What good is it to me to be well again.

*Following an ancient writer’s reflection
\

PEARL NECKLACE*

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PEARL NECKLACE


I shall travel to Hyderabad,
And there select for you the very best of pearls.

The stars have already wrought anklets to adore your feet.

I plan to use the power of my tears
To knot a strand of special luster to lay about your neck.

Wealth and fame will come from you;
These are things that Destiny has ordained.
Yet this my sorrow remains absolutely my own.

Behold the luminosity of the nacre, and appraise
How the space tied between each of the jewels conspires,
Enhances the subtlety of the array now falling upon your breasts.

Touch with your fingers the magic of the spherical splendor.
Walk to the mirror, look upon yourself -- what value,
What elegance yours at the expense of my misery!

 

I call upon you. Turn your heart about.
Hurry home!  Hurry back to my lips,

And let me hold you in my arms again.



*An Original Poem Adapted After Tagore’s “Chain of Pearls,”
Rabindranath Thakur, anglicised to Tagore, He sometimes is refered to by his nickname, Gurudev. An Inidian poet, Bengali,
he had been awarded the Noble Prize for Literature in 1913.

ALWAYS, After Pablo Neruda

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ALWAYS, After Pablo Neruda


I'm not concerned about those other men,
The lovers who came before me.

I could not care less! Forget about it.

Your friends, those guys who had previous claim,
Who boasted title to the blood rush of your heart,
They mean nothing to me.

Come to me carrying an old boyfriend on your shoulders.

Show me that picture,
The one which has a hundred men sniffing your hair.
Conjure up a mother goddess image,
A thousand guys nestling between your breasts,
Or tell me that you have had acolytes adoring your feet.

Flood me over as were your memories
A monsoon river torrent, when in mid-July it empties
The mountain-gully slopes of Goa,
And speeds the great, red earth out into the Sea of Arabia.

Roar into me with the tidal wave of all your mementos.

Show me the wrecked hopes,
The twists and heaps of those tokens which at one time spelled
The bleeding-heart intent of your now-drowned lovers.

How wretchedly long the debris stretch,
How deep and far your keepsakes tear inland over the coastline!

What vanity dreams to withstand the timeless motion of the surf!

Yet here I am.
I wait. I am waiting for you,
No matter what, or who it is, you may bring along.

We are alone, we shall always be alone,
We shall always be you and I.

 
                                                      
 And here -- here is the time,
The place, where, through the ages,
Through worlds and worlds, through universes apart,
In a flash out from the cycle of life after life.

We are now at the moment.

Our affection reaches beyond the stint of ordinary dimension.
It has settled in for the term we call immortality.