Tenderloin Blues

Nighttime city buses,
passengers bathed in
fluorescent gloom
sit silent,
every corner and crack illuminated,
no one casting a shadow--like the undead
prowling an ancient Carpathian castle.
There were two worlds--worlds apart--
the stark,
bright realism
of the interior
and the impressionist outside
where colored lights
bore through the darkness,
smearing and dripping,
splotching and streaming
onto a dynamic canvas of night.
The bus stops
to take on more sad ghosts.

Woodlice

The woodlice leave traces
of their work
around the floor of this
rocking chair.
In this old house,
raw emotions
seem so fragile,
only to be transformed
into the sound of this rocking chair,
measuring the shifting of wood,
burrowed in silence,

older than
any memory
that I will have,
like the dust
that remains.

Virginia Marvene Hixon

Years ago, as I stood in your kitchen
in green neon socks and first bra bravado
I did not care that you were born
in a cabin on top of Lookout Mountain.
Your smell of mothballs and Lady Stetson
lulled me to sleep,
and my droopy eyes were not surprised when
you drove to the store in second gear.
Years later I would learn of the
red hot talent that took you
from Alabama to New York for an exhibit
of your own. Perhaps the slow train ride
back is what makes you question my weight
or my complexion.
Now, looking at your painting of the cabin
on Lookout Mountain, my feet
wider and flatter from the weight of my own train rides, I wonder:
If I look close enough, can I see through
the window into your room?

Tatoo

I could paint a poem
On your back
With a Chinese brush
And India ink.
And then, with a razor
Or pin or sliver of bamboo
And a stolen hotel towel
(to daub the blood
and excess black),
I could make it
Permanent.
I have seen this done
Before on television
And in movies. But
You would never allow
This violence of
Obligation, this enduring itch
Of commitment.
You could never abide
My words on your skin.

Untitled

I want to take a trip to meet you
In a cool London park under trees,
And sit
Beneath the sun with our books
On a blanket. My head in your lap,
Tickling your ankle.
Run your fingers through my hair,
Please.
Teach me everything that life has taught.
Soak up my scant knowledge like a sponge.
You show me your Lisbon and I,
I will show you my London.

Writer's Block

He read a poem about his mother,
moving me enough to walk over to him after the reading was over,
but the words I wanted to say condensed
and sat cold and slippery on the hand
I offered him.
I wanted to tell him that his words were
beautiful enough to copy into my quote book,
one of my favorite things,
a selective selection. I wanted to ask him
how I could make someone's quote book--
how to write something that wasn't what one
of my professors calls a "burp poem,"
a regurgitation of youthful hormones
stuffed in thin, plastic bags,
overflowing like the dumpsters of beer cans
behind the row, smelling just as foul.
There are poems in my toes, at the bottom of
my feet; each day they flatten,
crushed under my weight, molding to my
instep . . . never making it to my fingers.

Spring

If spring were a woman,
she would be arrayed in yellow and blue and red,
not the colors of daffodils and hyacinths and irises,
but blue for waning winter days,
the yellow of daylight savings time,
and the angry red of stormy skies.

Her scent would be the fresh-ploughed earth,
her breath the breeze of melting snow,
and in her eyes of heavy clouds
would be the promise of verdant fields.

If spring were a woman,
she would be a gifted woman, indeed!

The Dry Land

A soft comfort on a cold bus
and Arizona passes me by.
The fake desert of cow-grass and brown
misleads from the sky.
Abandoned hills give home
to the sunset of sweet orange
and an indescribable glow
to which I am now so much closer.
The canyon in its grandeur
truly is a mystic;
an overwhelming beast
not tangible, touchable,
but there just the same.
And Sedona with her red Earth,
pushed upward toward the sky
shows in all her glory
how Mother Nature is kind

Ave de Champ Elysees, Late Summer, 1999

Hemingway has gone away
and taken Paris with him.

I'd walked the streets for days and found
nothing
--save the absolute perfect croissant
with chocolate studs like jewels--
that could convince me I was in
an old world den of culture.

I went to McDonald's to see if they really
called them
Royales with cheese.
They did,
but that joke wore thin on Mickey D's #43
as I sat out front drinking coffee
in the lengthening shadow of glory
and triumph.

Out To Sea

I want to live wild and salty,
with legs drawn up like pillars of sea salt
pulled from the ocean floor,
blinking up at the sun,
bleaching in the dry heat;
arms of kelp,
slender, soft, bitter,
reaching out to the diamond dapples
in the water-skin above;
a tongue like tidal waves--
foam and noise
speaking tirelessly,
smoothing out the sand;
and lips like coral or thick anemones,
words sliding in and out like clown fish--
bright, quick,
darting though tunnels of throat and mouth,
swayed by currents,
pulled out to sea.

Looking Down from La Rocca

In the hues of something
from Picasso's Rose Period,
clay tile roofs stretch into the horizon
and fade into farms.
Contrasted against the
nickel-stained leaves of olive trees,
the town looks dyed by the sun
in the color of dryness.
Dog-eared and drowsy,
a village sits quietly in the valley,
waiting to house a fairy tale.
If this were a Disney movie,
a pink-cheeked heroine
would be singing from a window.
I want to fall asleep here,
in the smell of hot weather
and the shade of twisted tree limbs,
with the hope that slumber will
help me dream the view into immortality.

Shattered

I had this summer day
where you were fire and I was sand,
and we melted ourselves
into a rare and perfect glass.
Maybe we can be like marbles,
well-rounded and varied,
or maybe we can magnify
and burn splinters in the pavement.

Today I see the faintest reflection,
smooth but dirty, old and cherished,
like the way that you broke me
and smashed life on the floor.
We've been devitalized;
presently I hold just one sliver.
Maybe we were fragile,
or maybe
we can meld again
and mold our lives inside.

The Bee Box

In this small box, my love,
you'll not find a ring,
but instead, a brave little bee.
He'll be dead by morn, having given his life
defending his flowers against me.
I felt his sting
while picking the small, purple pansies
growing wild along the roadside,
in hopes of an afternoon bouquet for you.
And I grieved the sting,
more for him than me,
knowing full well the price he paid
for my small pain.
And I allowed him his victory,
leaving his flowers as a memory,
and brought you instead
this brave little bee,
who proves there is love
even in the smallest
of things.

The Unsung Hero

Dream deep the story of the night
Where temporal ties have no meaning;
In a land where strings of puppets and quantum obscurity
Disappear under the weight of an unbridled subconscious;
Where subdued cries against tangible oppressors
Take shape and form in the dreamscape as the tapestry of tonight.

Whether hero, adulterer, savior, or victim,
Visiting far horizons or aiding lives in distress--
Nobody's hero closes eyes to turn the tide, save the day,
And find infinite fulfillment in personal pain or pleasure.

The waking world with its goals made not met
Is forever dwarfed by night's tales yet untold.
We'd spend eternity here if only we knew the way--
Forever dreaming our passions and paving over our regrets.

My Loneliness

From the monastery window
I can see children
Hunting in the woods
They call me Father
But I cannot take away their pain
Perhaps I should let them catch me

My Beauty y Mi Tierra

I stand before you
And I wonder what you see.
Do you see my deep, brown, almond-shaped eyes;
My full lips and long, dark hair;
Skin the color of brown sugar;
My hips made for the salsa and plena music of my land;
Hands that can make expert tortillas and play congas?
Do you see the mountains and sunsets of my land,
Or my beautiful flag, glorious in its wave?
Do you hear the song of my coqui, as it sings my people to sleep?
Do you lose yourself in the clear waters and white sand of my beaches?
Or smell the guayaba and mango trees after an afternoon rain?
Listen closely inside of me,
Hear my ancestors humming boleros
With their Indian eyes and smooth black hair,
As they dance unknowingly to the song of the wind.
These are the wonders of my land and of my people,
The things that make me who I am--
My beauty, y mi tierra.

Coma

I gather words
like sunflowers, sweet
in my mouth--a
slack pocket that
once tumbled
together lemon
sours and
butterscotch.
Stuttering
neon in parched
dreams; words
pool while
morphine swells
my arteries. My
name is oven-
dried chicken
bones in my
throat.

Duty

While waiting patiently
For another rebuke,
She plans dinner,
Thawing poultry,
Privately packing pain into poetry.
Upon arrival,
He feasts predictably
Upon her mind.
How productive this pastime has become,
Seeds of anxiety perpetually plowed
Into a fertile psyche,
Bud perennially into paranoia,
Keeping once opulent fields
Obedient and still,
The occasional weeds of opinion
Plucked then poisoned at the root.
Ripe growth pressed
Continuously
Into a flatly laundered hush.

Colors

A purple sound comes humming
In a yellow dawn's full bloom.
Red eyes read the rising
Of another marbled moon.
And the jagged, blinding whiteness
That crowned the sightless night
Sleeps above blue heaven
And the rainbow's prism light.
Green life lifts and stretches.
Aqua waves anoint the shore.
Brown bodies kneel and kiss the earth.
Black yields to blue once more.

Weathered Trees

Behind the naked stone you crouched
in hushed concern,
waiting for the sun and rain
to change you from a seed to tree again.

A thousand years, with great elan,
you held your ground
against the tempest tossed,
your dignity and grace not lost.

Now your leaning trunk and branches
tell of frenzied gale.
Lo, your presence clearly shows
the passing years and which way
the wild wind blows.

Exit HeRe

i love you like a biscuit
melted soft and heated sweet
the sign post marks the distance
30 miles, twenty feet

with each passing gated farmhouse
each long-tongued, wagging cow
i water for the taste of it
only 19 miles now

the buttered, floured memory
of your golden yellow kiss
has left me as a beggar
wanting more, tasting bliss

1 mile left to your truck stop
i can hardly feel my feet
as they lunge onto your doorstep
your smile, my hunger
let's eat

Event at Mauna Loa

A fallen seed
from yesternight's bright flower
tumbles amid discarded husks
and humbled trees before
the crimson river's splayed
and crackling knees.
The red flood drags its dense
demented wake--seething,
heaving, blacktopping
root and reed.
Bedfellows strange beneath
the field--cinder and seed.
However deep the bed,
at some appointed hour,
with waft of dew and brush of light
fanning desire,
the seed commands its pavement dome.
It gives.
And, as all hope by hope is healed,
the flower lives.

Japanese Beetles

130 minutes
for us to sit in silence
the sun burns my face
so I turn away
wishing you would speak
but knowing
every word you're thinking
scares me
like Japanese beetles in my hair

Dance

Years of ballet as a child,
She walks on toes pointed out,
Soft as snow steps.

Costumes now hang
In a closet. Bright lights,
Boardrooms, no men
In tights. She's learning
To set her heels,
Solid like ice.

Make-up still masks
The pain of a pirouette.

The Raincoat

I know not from where the raincoat came,
Only that it hung in the corner of the hall
By the old stuffed chair near the game room,
Where old family pictures lined the wall.
As a child, I used to marvel at the fabric,
Worn and tattered, yet golden in its hues;
And I would think how one day, if I were sick,
I could put it on along with Daddy's shoes.
It seemed like a comfortable way
To hold my hurt inside--just wrap it tight,
Close my eyes, and ask my Mom to pray
With me to ward off evils of the night.
I knew that it was safe and strong, for Daddy
Wore it on those days of rage and pain
When things weren't all so happy,
With crops near death from too much rain.
Today at Mom's I finally put it on.
It was rather small and did not fit at all--
Quite strange, for in that house as Daddy's son,
It always seemed alone and very tall.

Me With Two Roots

My aunt with the rhythm
moves to exotic music
brown hand beats drum
I begin to dance

My cousin with the wide hips
wears her hair natural
she steals all the stares
I let my feathers go

My husky uncle with the food
eating chocolate-covered almonds
near the Tequila and black-eyed peas
I sip some poison

We with our eyes
stare off far away
we vision our thoughts
I see African trees in Mexico

Family Album

each time I open the tattered book
I find myself drawn in
by the angle of my father's chin
and his father's before him
and how my brother's small head
even then turned toward the window
in a way that made me know
he longed to go, to leave
that set of jaw, that olive skin
that name he shared with generations.
I'm sure I puzzled even then
about what every turn of face might mean
and just what would become of him
when age had closed the shutter
and the only place to look
was in

Sorry, I Just Couldn't Make It

Fell in love
In Chicago . . .
Doing homework.
It felt like I fell off a building,
Or passed out after a day of fasting.
It hit me as hard as not finding a parking place at dinnertime.
Do you see the sleep lines of my face?
I obviously have still not recovered
Because I can't find my shoes,
All my clothes are dirty,
And I don't have anything to wear.
My heart has been taken hostage,
And I can't stop dialing for help.
I feel I've been abducted by aliens.
I wake up and can't walk.
I've got 24-hour amnesia
All the time.
I know I'm in Chicago, but
Am I still in love?

Breakfasts and Sara, You Were Beautiful

Every day I think we went to the cafe,
the cafe of vapors and rhyme
and the circular truths going 'round,
truths of every day, like the sound from the
jukebox down there, our talk scratching
like an old record . . .

I spilled my confessions like coffee and
we mopped them up, the soppy glop like
a plate-load of me.
I'm sorry I'm sorry
An old record going 'round . . .

The smells of cinnamon and of grounds . . .
and I begin to think of you as a priest,
in your absolution and your grace.
Oh, and the long hours 'round noon,
your presence like sugar
on a long-handled spoon.

Pastoral

Outside the library, two cows browse
the still-wet grass,
unaware of the surge of intellect
going on around them, unaware of poetry,
politics, and what the fall fashion forecast is;
they are only hungry like me.

It's a clear case of mud and muddlement,
this morning's rain clinging to the pasture . . .
and I still clinging to my dreams.

For now things are in balance;
the weight of the mind,
a spinning feather in the wind
never touching ground,
while the two cows browse,
blissfully unaware.

No One Decides These Things

Once, when she was four years old,
she took the hand of her father
and stepped over the puddles left
in the potholes from the rainstorm.

One puddle was underneath an exhaust pipe.
It shone with oily colors: swirls of red, yellow, green.

"Daddy, I see a dead rainbow."

Her father clutched his heart
because it was such a beautiful thing
for her to say.

The years have gone fast.

Here she is now,
thirty-one years old, trying
to breathe new life into a dead bird,
mouth to beak,
with her own small son watching
very carefully.

Wait For You

you said it will only be a few days . . .

I counted the fingers on my left
then my right hand
then once again, and once again

Spring bloomed all around me
like the flowers on the caressing sheets
that comforted me each night

Summer burned with the moist air of sleepless
visions long and countless, hot and restless

Fall ripened our bed with blankets
like the growing red peas beneath the Ormosia
round, solid, and delicious.
the Chinese called them "love peas"
for thousands of years.

Winter whispered purity
beneath the blankets of snow and promises.

Tonight, as I climbed into bed
alone,
I left the light on for you
again.

Every Morning

Every morning we drive to the same coffee shop,
On the same road, up that same hill--
Castaneda would be disappointed.
There's a girl who walks up that hill,
Presumably to class.
Every morning we see the girl with plum red hair,
And every morning I try not to look at her.

The sound of the milk being steamed,
While the coffee grinder grinds the espresso beans
(Just right, like the texture of sugar),
I am violently reminded of what I have not become
And what has become of us because.
It was not shooting-magic; it is not a curse.
There will be no witch doctor stalking me, I think;
Yet the sounds of every morning are like echoing incantations.

Every morning amounts to this,
Since she told me her awful secret.

Belly

My belly, edged and fleshy, carries my shame, is my shame.
I force it in when I pass by, pulling so hard
I can almost feel the muscles tear like cloth,
imagining that sound when it nearly rends apart with the effort.
I despise that I care what they think of my pouchy belly,
but I hate their contempt and dismissal more,
eyes sliding over me,
assessing me slickly,
disregarding me swiftly.
The loss of an interest I never should have wanted
gives tooth to the smooth wood of my ego,
roughens its veneer, hard fought, dearly won.
Combatively, I try and remember
caresses felt, a rough palm over this stretched,
ridged skin marked with scars of expansion,
my breath fluttering,
or a child's head burrowed deeply there,
arms thrown around my hips as I soothe his worry,
brushing the tangled hair away from his ear with a cool, sure hand.

Direction

Driving southwest
(like misguided geese),
we peer out into the 
gray December dusk.
The electronic highway sign
shouts, "6:34 p.m."
like a 21st century night watchman,
forgetting to comment
that all is well.
A sleek jet rushes overhead,
and I wish I were on it
(no matter where it's going).
I can't help thinking my life 
has become a slide show of some
Leave-It-to-Beaver world--
full of repetitive small talk
about the price of gas
while picking lint off an old, gray sweater.

Runaway

I saw the hubcap
by the side of the road
dull like life
round like the world

It must have spent a lifetime
coming and going
scrambling in circles
never getting away

Then somehow one day
at this busy crossroads
it beat the system
that gave it meaning

And now it lies
by the side of the road
and perhaps it's happier
to rest and rust

Untitled

n silent waves
in hushes and whispers
the sand dunes roll over
the ages
of nothingness
from under
the camel hair tent
rushed out the sounds
of familiar voices
sitting
cross-legged
in front of the blank screen
my fingers typed out her name
Gaia
Pierre would probably think
my search is vain . . .
we go through life the way
a kiss would fade
away
in slow motion

மி Poet

He reads Shakespeare, even in the early mornings
When I am serene in dreams
He is there by the window with the sunlight emblazoned on his face
He awakens me before dawn, by his soft voice
As he richly recites Hamlet, "To be or not to be . . ."
I cannot recall any more than that
Because as he finishes, I am already lost in him
He glances at me with those gentle orbs of light
Smiles reassuringly and I fall
So deeply into the mask of enigma that he provides
I am hidden behind the door of dimensions
And only he possesses the key
And knows the secret lingo that reveals the code
He speaks to me when I close my eyes
The words trailing off into a world beyond my grasp
He illiterates, initiates, illustrates, iterates
And I am left to contemplate
Over the facts that fuddle my frail form
He is so fascinatingly fickle
With his Shakespeare and those eyes that burn so intensely

22

I gave myself to him,
And took himself for pay.
The solemn contract of a life
Was ratified this way

The value might disappoint,
Myself a poorer prove
Than this my purchaser suspect,
The daily own of Love

Depreciates the sight;
But, 'til the merchant buy,
Still fabled, in the isles of spice
The subtle cargoes lie.

At least, 'tis mutual risk,—
Some found it mutual gain;
Sweet debt of Life,—each night to owe,
Insolvent, every noon

Dwarven Flea Market

Like a dragon quenching his thirst,
it burns the water, hissing scream of steam;
the Hoffman steam polisher interrupts my thought,
even while I shine the gleaming bracelet of gold.

In this windowless confine of the flea market, stay I must,
where the rays of sun and moon refuse to beam.
Even while those around me dream of jewelries bought,
I, a Tolkien's elf, lament amongst the dwarves of old.

Each jewelry booth, like a cave of a legend,
has a guardian dragon that fumes and hisses;
and in the Latin music shop,
beyond the row of Chinese porcelain figurines,
salsa beats the heart.

Last

Friend, whose smile has come to be
Very precious unto me,
Though I know I drank not first
Of your love’s bright fountain-burst,
Yet I grieve not for the past,
So you only love me last!

Other souls may find their joy
In the blind love of a boy:
Give me that which years have tried,
Disciplined and purified,—
Such as, braving sun and blast,
You will bring to me at last!

There are brows more fair than mine,
Eyes of more bewitching shine,
Other hearts more fit, in truth,
For the passion of your youth;
But, their transient empire past,
You will surely love me last!

Wing away your summer-time,
Find a love in every clime,
Roam in liberty and light,—
I shall never stay your flight,
For I know, when all is past
You will come to me at last!

Today

When you served me breakfast in bed this morning,
You suddenly said you loved me.
Without thinking, I unknowingly returned the gesture,
Even though I didn't know if I felt it.
By lunchtime, you were saying it again
And this time I honestly said it back.
As a matter of fact, we said it a lot,
Almost after every bite.
Then at dinner, I said, "I love you," first.
This time, you mumbled when you said it.
Maybe you still had chicken in your mouth,
But I hardly heard it clearly.
I wonder what dessert will be.
Maybe you'll skip saying anything,
And be more concerned with your cake.

We Are Seven

--A simple child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the churchyard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the churchyard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little maid's reply,
"O master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

The world is too much with us

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.--Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

A Woman’s Last Word

Let's contend no more, Love,
Strive nor weep:
All be as before, Love,
---Only sleep!

What so wild as words are?
I and thou
In debate, as birds are,
Hawk on bough!

See the creature stalking
While we speak!
Hush and hide the talking,
Cheek on cheek!

What so false as truth is,
False to thee?
Where the serpent's tooth is
Shun the tree—

Where the apple reddens
Never pry---
Lest we lose our Edens,
Eve and I.

Be a god and hold me
With a charm!
Be a man and fold me
With thine arm!

Teach me, only teach, Love
As I ought
I will speak thy speech, Love,
Think thy thought—

Meet, if thou require it,
Both demands,
Laying flesh and spirit
In thy hands.

That shall be to-morrow
Not to-night:
I must bury sorrow
Out of sight:

--Must a little weep, Love,
(Foolish me!)
And so fall asleep, Love,
Loved by thee.

Soliloquy

The path was purpled with the petals from the Jacaranda trees
And I strolled along in shadows cast by interlocking leaves.
The breeze was lightly scented, softened by the sweetened airs;
Frangi-pani, Calla lilies, symbols of a heart's despairs,
Intermingling scents and colors, stirring senses long asleep
And memories of an Eden, memories that I ought to keep.
Sad and joyful recollections, by this beauty brought to mind,
Reawakened, reassuring that the heavens are not blind,
Helping me in understanding birth, and childhood, marriage, death,
Filling me with love and longing, glad of life and thought and breath.
Thus on a pathway flecked with glory and with fragrant scent imbued,
I bowed my head but raised my heart in pleasant solitude.

The Long-Ago God

I remember when you were god
when you were Samson and Solomon
that whenever I looked at your face
you were a pyramid,
abutting the sky and luminescent like Polaris
with showers of light coloring your shadow
It was then
that the mere hint of your voice
ended my day-long aches
and it was then
that a gingerly touch from your hands
turned erstwhile gloom into blue sky
I remember when you were god
You were the breath of the Nile
flowing, flapping your wings
and generating perfection
It was then
that I cherished the day
when, I too, could approximate you
I remember when you were god

A Valentine to My Wife

Accept, dear girl, this little token,
And if between the lines you seek,
You'll find the love I've often spoken—
The love my dying lips shall speak.

Our little ones are making merry
O'er am'rous ditties rhymed in jest,
But in these words (though awkward—very)
The genuine article's expressed.

You are as fair and sweet and tender,
Dear brown-eyed little sweetheart mine,
As when, a callow youth and slender,
I asked to be your Valentine.

What though these years of ours be fleeting?
What though the years of youth be flown?
I'll mock old Tempus with repeating,
"I love my love and her alone!"

And when I fall before his reaping,
And when my stuttering speech is dumb,
Think not my love is dead or sleeping,
But that it waits for you to come.

So take, dear love, this little token,
And if there speaks in any line
The sentiment I'd fain have spoken,
Say, will you kiss your Valentine?

A Divine Rapture

E'en like two little bank-dividing brooks,
That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams,
And having ranged and search'd a thousand nooks,
Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames,
Where in a greater current they conjoin:
So I my Best-beloved's am; so He is mine.

E'en so we met; and after long pursuit,
E'en so we joined; we both became entire;
No need for either to renew a suit,
For I was flax, and He was flames of fire:
Our firm-united souls did more than twine;
So I my Best-beloved's am; so He is mine.

If all those glittering Monarchs, that command
The servile quarters of this earthly ball,
Should tender in exchange their shares of land,
I would not change my fortunes for them all:
Their wealth is but a counter to my coin:
The world 's but theirs; but my Beloved's mine.

LOVE

[I loved her for that she was beautiful]

I loved her for that she was beautiful;
And that to me she seem'd to be all Nature,
And all varieties of things in one:
Would set at night in clouds of tears, and rise
All light and laughter in the morning; fear
No petty customs nor appearances;
But think what others only dream'd about;
And say what others did but think; and do
What others dared not do: so pure withal
In soul; in heart and act such conscious yet
Such perfect innocence, she made round her
A halo of delight. 'Twas these which won me;—
And that she never school'd within her breast
One thought or feeling, but gave holiday
To all; and that she made all even mine
In the communion of love: and we
Grew like each other, for we loved each other;
She, mild and generous as the air in spring;
And I, like earth all budding out with love.

Po3M Of Th3 DaY

Arranged Marriage

Sickly-sweet jasmine coils in her
serpentine braid,
bathed in rose water and mystic oils,
swathed in scarlet silk and burnished in gold.

Mirrored orbs of eyes lined with kohl
to ward off the evil eye,
startled bindi marks her forehead,
center of her being, as one with the universe.
Rich stains seep through ivory skin,
of crushed henna, as an unending maze.

Sunburst marigolds squat on dewed grass
hearing hushed whispers upon mumbled mantras.
Stiff old aunts stiff in starched saris,
crusty vermilion in their hair as
flaking proof of marriages that last.
Watching young girls dance to flute melodies,
plotting upon future brides for sons.

Downcast timid bridal eyes harboring
resentment within
an ebbing heart.

Hina Qidwai

My PoeTrY Of Th3 DaY

The Snowman

"Our snowman will be beautiful," we say,
Forgetting we're too old to be so happy.
Our bodies made bulky by heavy winter coats,
We grin like children, giddy with the cold.
Our frozen fingers clumsy, we mold him,
Sculpt him out of fresh, white snow,
Until that moment when the body is so cold
You can't imagine ever being warm again.
Hot chocolate sounds so inviting.
"We'll finish him tomorrow," we promise
And hurry inside.
But there are some things I don't understand,
Like love and war and weather.
And tomorrow, a warm front moves in--
From one of the sultry southern places
We planned to visit on our honeymoon.
Moves in, moves out,
Taking our snowman with it
And leaving us a puddle
Of good intentions.