Posted tagged ‘how do I love thee poem’

Strange Ways of Old Grief

September 25, 2016



Strange Ways of Old Grief

When you touch me like
full summer,
I should, like grass, glow heedless
of what’s mown,
you as full of rest
as those rusting dusks
that hillsides carry
in their arms, and I am in
your arms,

but some just part of me
rears inside
like an accuser at the back
of a wedding pew,
remembering those who lost such bliss
too soon–
what do I even know of their bliss?–those friends
I loved–

and in that would-be sweetness, I weep,
brain a jungled heap
of their mounded flowers, the waxed
moon blooms–how could you leave me, I think to them,
though I was the least
death left behind–

while you, like those dusks whose only rustling
is warmth, just hold me closer
than passing day, as closely as the hillsides hold
their indigoed grass,
we two also
turns of earth.



Here’s a draft poem of sorts for Kerry O’ Connor’s reprising “Play it Again, Sam” prompt on With Real Toads -this one influenced by the remarkable poetry of James Wright (original prompt by Grace.)  I’m calling it a draft as still revising it even as posting–the pic is mine.  All rights to both poem and pic reserved. 



July 3, 2015



Pressing myself against your bared back
feels like the idea
of lying down in a golden field
only there is no stalk
poking my arm–

well, that is not completely true–

except that my skin is not incipient
with crawl, with twitch, some
itch, and the craving
to (not exactly) scratch it–

forget that too–

but certainly there’s no filigree of fern or even hair
along the horn of your nape, spine,
the ridges of ribs that like me
reach round you,
the crests of shoulders
my nose climbs–

For it’s only the idea
of a golden field,
this warmth where I lay
me down, or at least
the idea of me,
this expanse where we both
become quite other–

not true again–

for your skin
always holds gold
when I look closely–
you, my
mister glister–
you, where I lay
you, who loves that me–


I’m back with this draftish poem for Hannah’s prompt on nature’s wonders on With Real Toads.  The pic is an older one of a much wetter field than I imagine for this poem!