Sunday, April 8, 2018

Lilacs

My desire has changed its name
to the scent of lilacs.
How can I call it back?

The night wears a purple cape
and stores the sun inside a lace-up shoe.
In the morning, I dangle it from my fingers, still dreaming.

Woman of the green lawns,
you with words composed from lilac wood,
make your body a boundary for birds to mark their way by.

The night is a grandmother I never knew.
She drapes the sun in a tent of dough, with practiced fingers,
calling to me in the morning, when she is gone.

Woman of the curious starling,
you'll find my house easily enough.
There is music from a violin, then none. Then again. Then both.

My desire has changed its name
to the scent of lilacs.
In the morning, I dangle it from my fingers, still dreaming.
_______

For day 8.

9 comments:

hedgewitch said...

Every word here is fused to the feel of love and spring and yearning, yet it has a dignity that has nothing to do with the foolish swagger, sturm und drang and braggadocio of youth's passions. It's the desire that comes at sunset, so perfectly expressed as the evocative smell of lilacs, for the last beautiful colors to play across the sky of the soul as the sun sinks, for the last night breezes to fulfill the airy promises they make at last...just a gorgeous love poem, Shay, as only you can write them. Words are beginning to fail me to express my feelings at what you are writing lately.

Outlawyer said...

Just lovely - agree with Hedge. k.

Kerry O'Connor said...

Really so beautifully delicate in emotion and expression of desire. I adore the third stanza and the fifth, the ones that call to the woman. The scent of lilacs is a tangible thread throughout.

Lynn said...

Lovely and ethereal.

Mama Zen said...

The night is a grandmother I never knew.

That aches. Just really beautiful work, Shay.

Sherry Marr said...

So beautiful. I especially love "The night is a grandmother I never knew." Sigh. Yes, your pen is on fire lately, even more so than usual. Wowzers.

willow_switches said...

Look up the lyrics to "the spy who loved me" by Carly Simon ~ 'nuff said.

(okay, that's a cop out for me)

Syringa vulgaris - (beauty in the beast, of love)

Everyone knows lilacs, like lavender, can be overpowering, overwhelming, cloying -
but this is the best of the essences, the scents. Soft, evocative, surprisingly gentle in the wonder of awe, with highly surprising images you've drawn from the garden, oh Queen of the Blossoms.

As for dough?
you know, they say only some have the "touch" to really make it happen, and if you do, it's heaven on the plate and on the tongue, the palate sings to a higher frequency, only the bees know it by name -
so it is I consider, within the poem, that you wonder about grandmother and not knowing her,
yet I believe the yearning speaks of the learning already understood within the heart - as it rises with your soul, even if you call it another name


a secret? shared -
if ever my soul were to dream-awake to a reality of love, I would wish for this touch

superb - and softly delicious oh Lady of the Greens, Trees, Woods and Weeds (all flowers are weeds)

Sioux Roslawski said...

Shay--The line "How can I call it back?" is so well crafted. It makes me wistful...

Toni Spencer said...

Right now my lilacs are blooming. This poem evokes their delicate scent. On the wind I can get a touch of the scent. This is how this poem strikes me. Excellent and well crafted Shay. I love this poem.