What is this thing that you can’t speak of?
This flirtation that will not hold its tongue but would rather hold yours between its teeth
And bite the thwarted anticipation of your mad fear’s confusion.
for fuck’s sake, what’s to choose?
Your body has already chosen for you
I hear it calling me on the telephone it anticipates my touch
it intakes your breath
it recalls my lips onto yours this tongue wets a damp crevice and summons the river
and it flows like no other desire from phone to train to bedroom
a churning current that carves out cliffs on the shoreline on the way plowing across the months and years exposing the bone and sinew of yes,
Pure Beautiful Carnal Longing
that is the truthful stench of black damp earth pregnant with all of life; pregnant with who you and I will become
when One again.
When turning and churning, unraveling and raveling the bed sheets again.
The furious spinning of uplift resisting all gravity.
There’s a vertigo to our desire but no, I will not let you fall.
Recall, hear my cries of consummation in your arms, rising and falling, dancing between your upturned thighs
Recall your gasps of surprised delight
As the wings of a fallen angel unfurl to take in the return to paradise. You can feel this all again with me, baby.
Paintings of Medusa by Nancy Farmer © 2014 for the Poem in the collection IS SHE AVAILABLE? (Chameleon)
recently returned some poems I had sent her from far, far ago when we ere young and in lust and barely able to bare the sight or scent of each other without fainting into reverie and floating together; clouds that had long since let go of their rain.
It is a gift to visit ancient ports and distant shores.
Time is as big as the world it passes by.
So it is with words:
hiding in the rain.
never show your pain.
some kind of innocence
is nourished in your fears.
you don’t know how much
I’ve tried just to hold you near.
(there is no way out-
-there is no way out).
the poet earns his keep
from reading the pain in others eyes
while his eyes are fountains
of tear drops and shattered sunlight.
Igor Goldkind 1983
You love me, I know with your own hands
For I am faithful to your fingertips.
When you pierce me with your wide-eyed glances,
I am stilled.
The earth grows roots around my calves,
And my body is made of branches.
Your gaze shivers their leaves like an Autumn breeze.
Igor Goldkind 1977
by the emptiness
Igor Goldkind late 70’s
And then Paris, 1986: