"...In one creative thought a thousand forgotten nights of love revive..." (Rilke)
Fingering pollen-dusted fronds
I think of the last time we met,
of how your body opened to mine
like this flower, unashamed,
abandoned to the heat of our night's sun.
Delicate,
such raging extravagance
is not meant to last the summer.
(from Fragile Bodies, Wild Women Press 2004)
like this flower, unashamed,
abandoned to the heat of our night's sun.
Delicate,
such raging extravagance
is not meant to last the summer.
(from Fragile Bodies, Wild Women Press 2004)
...at night, I spin lines from my desire, heat-ribbons left out for you to find...
3 comments:
Ah, it all seems so long ago now doesn't it? Writing those words. Strange how time moves things on. When I put some of my old stuff up I felt like I moved on but my words remain to betray how I felt then. Did you feel that way when you put yours up? (not that I am ashamed of the way I felt, it was a fantastic time for me-but gone...)
hah-reading this back looks like we had some kind of lesbian love tryst!!
well Gill, you should know better than to look into my eyes...I have you now!
The more I write and the more I read of what I write, the more I see it as a map, woven through all this living. It is both the me 'then' and the me 'now' - which is shaped by the experiences of this life. Like the tree. We have this fantastic piece of wood here, smooth with a perfect twist in the centre that was caused by a barbed wire knot. The wire no longer remains, but the tree continued to grow with that twist in its heart. Twisted. And Blissful.
Oh yeah- I forgot you are the brazen serpent. I have to follow you blindly!!
But yes, the twisted bits become knotted into our fabric.
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