The waters of poetry will rise tonight
as your skin will blaze with my touch,
as the fever in your eyes will rise
step by feverish step.
The fast darts of your passion.
The waters of poetry will rise
as I will recite aloud the poems
that you like
and leave the best till the end,
leave it on the tip of my tongue
to leave it on the tip of your tongue.
The waters of poetry will mount
and the fever in your eyes will rage
like an angry beast against the chains
of this beastly fire.
The fires will burn and won't die out.
Night itself will stoke the beast of this poem,
stir the waters of this poem
as the madness of our skins will
unremember the reason of our reserve.
This blaze and fever will restore
the forgotten lyric of our skin and stones.
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2 comments:
so many changes here...
i read this poem when you first posted it, and have come back to it several times... is this the first time you actually write about the present moment, or the now of a presence? i don't remember any other poems like this one.
i love this, what you have in excess: dark passion. and the excess is always menacing, but it is also that what the gods love. i like to think so.
i love so many images here, hard to choose. i don't have to, i know that. just to leave the waters of your poem on the tip of my tongue.
some excerpts from a poem i remembered:
Let us instead pray dangerously –
wantonly, lustily, passionately.
Let us demand with every ounce of our strength,
let us storm the gates of heaven, let us shake up ourselves
and our plaster saints from the sleep of years.
Let us pray dangerously.
Let us throw ourselves from the top of the tower,
let us risk a descent to the darkest region of the abyss,
let us put our head in the lion’s mouth
and direct our feet to the entrance of the dragon’s cave.
Let us pray dangerously.
Let us not hold back a little portion,
dealing out our lives–our precious minutes and our energies–like some efficient accountant.
Let us rather pray dangerously — unsafe, profligate, wasteful!
Let us ask for nothing less than the Infinite to ravage us.
Let us ask for nothing less than annihilation in the
Fires of Love.
Let us not pray in holy half-measures nor walk
the middle path
for too long,
but pray madly, foolishly.
Let us be too ecstatic,
let us be too overwhelmed with sorrow and remorse,
let us be undone, and dismembered…and gladly.
Left to our own devices, ah what structures of deceit
we have created;
what battlements erected, what labyrinths woven,
what traps set for ourselves, and then
fallen into. Enough.
Let us pray dangerously — hot prayer, wet prayer, fierce prayer,
fiery prayer, improper prayer,
exuberant prayer, drunken and completely unrealistic prayer.
Roxana, glad to see your comments.
Do you remember the Mostar rains poem you introduced me to?
The great poem you have posted here reminds me of that. surely,i think you will not tease me and tell me who wrote it? if you did, i wo'nt be surprised. this poem just excites the rhythmic direction that i want to move towards. i wish!
re the poem i posted here, it has been many days since then, much water has flown down the Thames since then, i think, but i remember that present, now past, but somehow the fiction and the fact of those moments eludes me now. i like your comments, they are more poetic than my poem!
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