Tuesday, January 29, 2013

The Queen Of Small Spaces

I am the Queen of small spaces--
one ripe plum on a clean white counter,
a single filigreed chair,
and August moonlight for my hair--
these are all I claim.

One night, near the end of Summer,
I filled a vase with love poems folded from crimson blooms.

Verbal as a Saimese,
and aching for your slightest touch,
I put on the soft black shoes of my persistent, hopeless desire,

to come haunting your door at dawn, offering you everything--
these trifles,
all I have.
_______

11 comments:

Kerry O'Connor said...

"dime store Neruda"?

You're in a class of your own, lady!

Sherry Blue Sky said...

Every single poem - lines that make my hold my breath and wonder: how do you do it? For instance, the love poems folded from crimson blooms.......and the "soft black shoes of my persistent, hopeless desire". WOW.

Brian Miller said...

One night, near the end of Summer,
I filled a vase with love poems folded from crimson blooms.

Verbal as a Saimese,
and aching for your slightest touch,
I put on the soft black shoes of my persistent, hopeless desire,

sorry to quote back half your poem shay but there is where the heart is for me...with a tender pen you write it...love it...

jasmine said...

Excellent.

"one ripe plum on a clean white counter"
"August moonlight for my hair"
"these are all I claim"
"I filled a vase with love poems folded from crimson blooms"
"aching for your slightest touch,
I put on the soft black shoes of my persistent, hopeless desire"
"to come haunting your door at dawn, offering you everything"
"these trifles,
all I have"

The queen of small spaces is miserable---no queen at all---with only a tiny corner to call her own. (And yet, she offers even that to her beloved.) How well you have conveyed her truth. Such a humble spirit you have presented. Beautiful work, as always, Shay.

hedgewitch said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
hedgewitch said...

Trying again without the typonese and garble:

I fell in love with this when I saw the title, and each line just made me want to get a heart-shaped tattoo even more. The Neruda comes through in those black shoes, a bit, but the feet in them are definitely Fireblossom's. There is a sense of compression with all that yearning, but only in the way juice is pressed from the fruit ripe and willing to release it. No one writes this sort of thing like you, Shay. I am lucky to live here in a world that is redeemed because I can read it.

manicddaily said...

This is just lovely, Shay. Really terrific. The ache and the desire, and the humility. k.

myheartslovesongs.com said...

{{{sigh}}} nobody... i mean NOBODY writes love poems like you do! there are no words to describe how wonderful this is! one woman's trifles are another woman's treasures.

{then you go and label it "dreamers wandering around in traffic" ~ you nut!}

Buddah Moskowitz said...

You've written a love poem and didn't have to write about pwetty fwowers. Great imagery, vulnerable sentiment - and who de hell is Neeroodah anyways?

Lydia said...

Verbal as a Siamese,
and aching for your slightest touch,
I put on the soft black shoes of my persistent, hopeless desire,


Good lord, Woman, your really are in a class by yourself, as one mentioned above. This is shorter than much of your poetry, and every word is perfection, and no other words are needed. You are more than gifted.

Mama Zen said...

I still find this breathtakingly beautiful. "Verbal as a Siamese" just tears me up.