Saturday, February 26, 2011

Interlude



I dreamed I met a young trans dyke gypsy and her girlfriend

After a reading at Cat Tails.

Conventions fell away from them like dust from the wings of Romany-speaking red-tailed hawks

And as I stepped up into their wagon,

Years vanished from me

Like black beads from a broken rosary.



They renewed my faith

In twenty minutes.

The girlfriend's lips were like light to one nocturnally born--

A glorious surprise,

As the trans dyke soothed the smoke-stained walls

With the flow of her voice

Smooth as the springwork on a trap door into momentary solace.



I found two sisters,

But in the morning they moved on,

And I crawled the scrub weed barbed wire slopes

Back down to job,

Obligations,

And dreary February like a congregation of Baptist corpses singing.

_______

photo by Metin Demiralay

11 comments:

La Belette Rouge said...

I like how you, Tiger-friend, manage to weave religious imagery with a poem about....hmmm....I was about to say a meeting with a couple of sisters. But then I realized the whole thing is about religious imagery and that these two sisters serve a transcendent function. These *sisters* transport you into: 1) connection that leads to tran-scendence; 2) Renewal of faith; 3) Glorias;4) The hell of obligation.
Damn, your good!
xoxo
Weasel-friend

Sioux said...

I STILL want to know how in the
h--- you do it! Every day (or just about! Always mind-blowing!

I am hoping to find out (via some explosive scandal) that you are not one single person, but instead a community of like-minded poets who take turns writing phenomenal poems and then fling themselves onto the floor, spent, waiting until the rotation is complete and it's their turn again.

I loved the line about the "scrub weed barbed wire slope' along with the simile about the red tail hawk.

ellen abbott said...

the morning after sucks.

Kim Nelson said...

Dear One,
You create characters of such lively trait. I want to meet each one, share good wine and hearty bread; hear their stories. Tell them that they are wondrous and perfect in their evolution.
Pleasure, as always.

Sherry Blue Sky said...

Your writing transcends, it is on a whole other plane and I so love to just keep reading and reading. Some especially brilliant lines: "like light to one nocturnally born", "a trap door into momentary solace" (damn!!!!!), and "a congregation of Baptist corpses singing." You are amazing. Truly.

Raven said...

I'm not able to be nearly so elegant in my praise as everyone else, simply cuz I haven't had enough coffee yet and my brain isn't functioning at an optimum level. So, I'm just gonna go with,

girl, you fuc*ing rock!

Another fantabulous poem!

K said...

I really like this image - Conventions fell away from them like dust from the wings of Romany-speaking red-tailed hawks

Beautiful

TALON said...

What can I say, Shay? Such clear and beautiful imagery. Is there anything worse than going back to job?

hedgewitch said...

Dreams of gypsies tramps and resurrectionists transformed into crawling up the barb wire slopes pretty well take us along that whole journey from the sublime to the dismal that is this rollar coaster we ride. The imagery speaks in its own language, a sense a bird might have midflight falling suddenly out of the sky...

The only wagon I've found going away from job is age, but I like yours better.

Ami Mattison said...

Love, love, love it! Divine intervention always seems followed by lesser experiences. The Baptist corpses slay me here. And the comparison between the dreary deadness of religion and the lively faith of spiritual mysticism is a burst of genius!

Mama Zen said...

The imagery in this is just glorious.