Oh, you know, just a-working here; alone; playful thoughts occasionally intruding, pushed away, well away. Can't not share my distractions with you boys. (Girls, look away. Unless, of course ...)
What is it when your man sits on the floor
in sweatpants, his latest project
set out in front of him like a small world, maps
and photographs, diagrams and plans, everything
he hopes to build, invent or create,
and you believe in him as you always have,
even after you set your coffee down
and move toward him, to where he sits
oblivious of you, concentrating
in a square of sun --
you step over the rulers and blue graph-paper
to squat behind him, and he barely notices,
though you're still in your robe
which falls open a little as you reach
around his chest, feel for the pink
wheel of each nipple, the slow beat
of his heart, your ear pressed to his back
to listen -- and you are torn,
not wanting to interrupt his work
but unable to keep your fingers
from dipping into the ditch in his pants,
torn again with tenderness
to the way his flesh grows unwillingly
toward your curved palm, toward the light,
as if you planted it, this sweet root,
your mouth already an echo of is shape --
you slip your tongue in his ear
and he hears you call him away
from his work, the angled lines of his thoughts,
into the shapeless place you are bound
to take him, over the bridges of bone, beyond
borders of skin, climbing over him
into the world of the body, its labyrinth
of ladders and stairs -- and you love him,
with equal measures of expectancy
and fear and awe, taking him with you
into the soft geometry of the flesh, the earth
before its sidewalks and cities,
its glistening spires,
stealing him back from the world he loves
into this other world he cannot build without you.
But, of course--here is Ell reading......
I would tell you my favorite part, but, that would give too much away!!
This would warm up a very chilly morning......
Stephen, Thanks for posting this, it is excellent. I see that there are a host of Dorianne Laux web sites and after reading some of her poetry I know why. jhs
Now I have to find someone to share it with to make my blushing a bit less lonesome ;-)
Here's another by her I have added to my treasure anthology - "open his clothes and take the whole day inside me" - man, that makes me shiver:
The Shipfitter's Wife
I loved him most
when he came home from work,
his fingers still curled from fitting pipe,
his denim shirt ringed with sweat
and smelling of salt, the drying weeds
of the ocean. I'd go to where he sat
on the edge of the bed, his forehead
anointed with grease, his cracked hands
jammed between his thighs, and unlace
the steel-toed boots, stroke his ankles
and calves, the pads and bones of his feet.
Then I'd open his clothes and take
the whole day inside me—the ship's
gray sides, the miles of copper pipe,
the voice of the foreman clanging
off the hull's silver ribs. Spark of lead
kissing metal. The clamp, the winch,
the white fire of the torch, the whistle,
and the long drive home.
Holy Mother of all that is Good !!!!! This is inspiring me to try to write something like this as well.. Hehehe
Where do I get me one a them tooters?
You already did. Now, do as you're told, or you'll go to your room.
Honest to god, I haven't had a tooter in YEARS!
Hey, thanks for posting this! It's lovely.
Yeah, fun to read. I saw this one once before somewhere, but cannot remember where. Everyone seemed to like it, formalists and free-versers alike. The rhymes of fall and call were an extra, as was chews and shoes. Left me wondering whether the teeth or the boys had the vibrant patience, too.
Me, again. Here's another beauty.
We put the puzzle together piece
by piece, loving how one curved
notch fits so sweetly with another.
A yellow smudge becomes
the brush of a broom, and two blue arms
fill in the last of the sky.
We patch together porch swings and autumn
trees, matching gold to gold. We hold
the eyes of deer in our palms, a pair
of brown shoes. We do this as the child
circles her room, impatient
with her blossoming, tired
of the neat house, the made bed,
the good food. We let her brood
as we shuffle through the pieces,
setting each one into place with a satisfied
tap, our backs turned for a few hours
to a world that is crumbling, a sky
that is falling, the pieces
we are required to return to.
After reading the thief, i think I'll have to go and have a cold shower. Phew...
Lovely, lovely. Time to drop over to Amazon, and see if there's a book in print.
Several books in print- including one on writing poetry.
Here's some more:
Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor--
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn't elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That's how it is sometimes--
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you're just too tired to open it.
Sharon Olds instead of Dorianne Laux, but another to send you to the cold shower:
I knew little, and what I knew
I did not believe -- they had lied to me
so many times, so I just took it as it
came, his naked body on the sheet,
the tiny hairs curling on his legs like
fine, gold shells, his sex
harder and harder under my palm
and yet not hard as a rock his face cocked
back as if in terror, the sweat
jumping out of his pores like sudden
trails from the tiny snails when his knees
locked with little clicks and under my
hand he gathered and shook and the actual
flood like milk came out of his body, I
saw it glow on his belly, all they had
said and more, I rubbed it into my
hands like lotion, I signed on for the duration.
Long time since there was me and Hugh crossing swords on this here site; and all this talk of sex too. Happy days.
I think he's the only one who announced he was quitting and actually did.
oh yes, D. Madison was the other one
I wish they'd both come back. And we could use more of Steven as well.
Hugh I dearly miss. Madison was an twit. Stephen, of course is a gem.
Now I can go eat meat.
amo to all,
I'm a gem?
Stephen (not Steven)
Oh what does Josev know, he spells his name backwards