too bright, too loud, too public;
A harsh-edged sun carves me from my nested silence,
dries me and stitches my mouth shut--
I choke on the songs I would have sung, come fall.
If I could kiss ice, I would.
If I could teach the clouds a good strong gray, I would.
If I could split November into wings, and fold them,
I would send myself into a steep dive
and kill summer with a single sudden strike.
All of this is because I miss your voice.
All of this is because you are too far to touch,
and too taken to ever be mine.
All of this is because of the skew of the stars,
and the curse of longing that has snaked between my ribs,
forming a second heart, jammed with poems,
a jar for beautiful indigo.
Summer spares me one gift, though she knows how I resent her--
She finds me on the floor, beating my brains with my fist
for the poems that refuse to come.
She gives me something--
not the thing I need, but still something--
light through blue lace,
making delicate, shifting patterns
on my untouched skin.
_________
Wow! That second stanza is simply amazing - as part of the bigger picture and in and of its own brilliant self.
ReplyDeleteLove this, Shay. I hate the idea of summer (oh, this heat & syrupy humidity!!) but then the grass turns neon green and the roses woo me with their intoxicating scents and I succumb each and every year to her charms. :-)
ReplyDeleteIndigo is, to me, the most mysterious of colors. I read a book by Graham Joyce entitled, "Indigo" and it blew me away as did his books, "Dark Sister" and "Smoking Poppy". He's the only author I know whose each and every book is totally different from the last.
Hang in there and stay cool. The poems will come. xoxo
i agree - the 2nd stanza was brilliant. split november / wings. sheesh...
ReplyDeleteThere is an old (Spanish, I think) proverb that goes, 'Take what you want, says God--then pay for it.' but who could ever put a price on a jar of indigo, especially one filled by your ink. Not every poem is something of a Cesarean delivery, but the best are, I think, and at least here the blade is sharp.
ReplyDeleteThis is a poem to sink your teeth into...rich color, wonderful description, deep longing...beautiful writing Shay.
ReplyDeleteShay--These lines are simply gorgeous:
ReplyDeleteAll of this is because of the skew of the stars,
and the curse of longing that has snaked between my ribs,
forming a second heart, jammed with poems,
a jar for beautiful indigo.
"...skew of the stars...longing that has snaked between my ribs..." Beautiful.
This is one of your best; it's painfully beautiful.
ReplyDeleteSummer is a difficult season for those of us who live internally. But you have found a way to cut through the stultifying glare.
ReplyDeleteLike so many who have commented I too am drawn to the second stanza but you had me at "Summer is the stack of dishes the busboy drops--too bright, too loud, too public"
Thank you so much for your visit and your kind words.
That's so beautiful, FB.
ReplyDeleteThis isn't the first time you've equated human emotion with the natural world. In fact, it's a recurring theme that you always seem to be able to keep fresh and brutally truthful. And again, I find myself re-reading your work to squeeze out the last bit of emotion. Awesome job!
ReplyDelete"a jar for beautiful indigo."
ReplyDeleteone of the BEST lines EVER!
"She gives me something--
not the thing I need, but still something--"
the cruelty of the universe ~ not the thing i need, but still something {so i should be grateful, yes?}
this poem is simply breathtaking, Shay!
LOVE it, SP!
♥
this is one i need to read several times to take it all in
ReplyDeleteAll of the senses are mediocre...
ReplyDeleteUntil YOU describe them!
I sank into this one, Shay, with a soft summer's sigh.
ReplyDelete