Soujin (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
psalm_onethirtyone) wrote2005-09-25 08:24 pm
psalm_onethirtyone) wrote2005-09-25 08:24 pm
"Soon it's Gonna Rain, I Can Tell..."
'Tis a poem. For Manon. Er.
Love Song
The first time is hardest,
he is sure
She is not beautiful, she is tall and thin and hollow
and wears a black dress like a billow
or a great sack
The first time is hardest
They eat in a tiny restaurant
(It's not candlelight, which is what
he always pictured:
it's smokey low half-light
and the smoke is from the fire next door
where a big house is burning down
and the tiny restaurant has its windows open
because it's late summer
and low
and hot
like the smokey half-light
Her face is pinched and irritable, her
blue eyes smoke slowly
He is not disappointed although
it's not candlelight)
(He watches her across the table
and smiles)
The first time is hardest
(You're a moon-eyed fool,
she says
which is good, or fine, because
it will keep him from getting too romantic
and besides
the first time is always the hardest)
The second time should be much better,
much better. He
takes her to see a play
of beauty and dreams and rising hope
of ideals and excellencies
of the triumph of love as it soars--
spread wings like a glittering stained-glass dragonfly
spread wings like a strong bright redwing blackbird
spread wings like a slow elegance in blue (heron)--
love soars down to the water
and breathes
jewelled breaths like the wind from dragonfly wings
The second act will be better,
much better -- She
is not beautiful, and her tangled black hair falls down
her narrow back
like a black cascade he longs to--no
like a black waterfall he longs to--no
like the black wings of love's redwing blackbird--no
like tangled black hair that she hasn't remembered
to brush
in four days and an evening. Probably she
doesn't care
(He longs to--no
He wants to--yes--he
wants to touch her tangled black hair
but suddenly she leans forward to look at something
on stage and he
is afraid
to startle her)
The second time must be better
(He says afterwards
Did you like it?
Sentimental gush,
she tells him. We should've gone to the movies.
Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
Maybe she means it)
Saturday evening she says she won't go to dinner
with him--it's her NRA club's monthly
meeting
He knows she is lying. He buys roses
By the third time things ought to be smooth
like a lake on a day with no wind
like the frosting on his sister's eighth birthday chocolate cake
like the engine of his father's sixty-nine MGB
Beautiful
He starts to write a poem
When he comes to pick her up at her apartment
Sunday evening the roses
are gone
Third time things ought to be smooth
(I boiled them,
she says, with rosemary, to make
a wash for my hands
Winter makes my skin flake off
it's disgusting)
(her kitchen smells like boiled roses
and rosemary)
(so do her hands)
The third time things ought to go smoothly
like cream pouring in a silkwhite waterfall
like skin washed with roses and rosemary
It's Sunday night and
everything is closed; his mistake
there is one place open and upscale--
He forgot about reservations
She leaves him standing by the door and
goes down to the dirty bridge over
the dirty river and
sits in her billow of ugly black dress
while the stars shine in the dirty river
He follows her down
Someone throws a bottle into the water
and it splashes silver
the spray is dirty and makes slick droplets in her tangled
black hair
that shine in the dirty black river of her hair like stars
The third time things should go smooth
like oil floating rainbow on the water
(I,
he says)
(Bastards,
she says)
(speaking is heavier than the silence)
By the fourth time they ought to be in love
He waits for the long-legged
blue-winged heron to glide down
with easy elegance, but
she trips in the museum and breaks a display case
the bronze bowl dents the wood floor
He sees her blush for the first time
red and splotched and strange
her hands clench
Outside, autumn is just as hot and low
and smokes and thickly
as summer. She
coughs.
His poem is finish, so he gives it to her
(Sentimental gush, she says
You could have quoted
Ambrose Bierce
He knows she is lying again)
Her black dress gets damp because outside
it just rained
her black tangle of hair, in the wet and hot,
curls like wood shavings in his grandfather's workshop
like peels of bark his grandmother stripped from a sassafras
like the fleece of his mother's lamb they were raising for Easter dinner
like coils of seaweed in a mermaid's hand
(he should have used that in his poem)
It's the fourth time, and they should be in love,
but
she straightens her damp black dress
and wants to go home
there is glass in her hand
from the broken display
(Not yet--
he says)
(Why not?
she asks)
She leaves his poem on the stone steps (by mistake)
so he gives it to her again
He buys more roses. This time
they're purple
he wishes there were roses
the colour of her eyes
This is the fourth time, and they should be in love.
He pays the museum for the broken display
while she walks home alone
She would not wait.
Fifth time
(Hello!)
Her hollow self almost does not turn, but
then she looks to see who
is shouting
The Italian Garden is open to-day
He could take her to the movies
or the midnight cave tours
or to Europe
or to Australia
or to a bagel shop just out of town
where you can get
a half dozen blueberry bagels
for four dollars after four o'clock
She prefers sesame, but
they put cream cheese on blueberry bagels
and she looks out the window while he watches her
(Your hair--)
(I need to wash it.
Well, yes. But I like it anyway)
(I hate blueberry)
They feed pieces of bagel to the ducks who swim
in the dirty river
Fifth time
The glass from the broken display case came out of her hand
all right
with hot tweezers and a needle, or maybe
the other way around--he
isn't really listening.
She crouches on the rocks in the shallows with her knees
up by her shoulder, bending and squatting
her hollow body
into a funny shape
her black dress gets wet at the hem
the ducks quack stupidly
(I love you)
(I can't hear you)
Fifth time
He hates ducks
Her black hair tangles down her back
She is like a redwing blackbird--no
or a February--no
or a spruce tree in a dark forest up the ridge of a mountain--no
or the word miracle spelled backwards--no
or--no
or--no, no, she is like
she is like
(I love you,
he says)
(You fool,
she says)
(So he kisses her, knees in the shallows, as the dirty water
soaks his pantslegs
and the ducks go on quacking for more
blueberry bagel
and she
smiles crookedly)
(Now that was a real love story,
he is sure)
(Idiot,
she says)
Fifth time
(Fifth time)
Love Song
The first time is hardest,
he is sure
She is not beautiful, she is tall and thin and hollow
and wears a black dress like a billow
or a great sack
The first time is hardest
They eat in a tiny restaurant
(It's not candlelight, which is what
he always pictured:
it's smokey low half-light
and the smoke is from the fire next door
where a big house is burning down
and the tiny restaurant has its windows open
because it's late summer
and low
and hot
like the smokey half-light
Her face is pinched and irritable, her
blue eyes smoke slowly
He is not disappointed although
it's not candlelight)
(He watches her across the table
and smiles)
The first time is hardest
(You're a moon-eyed fool,
she says
which is good, or fine, because
it will keep him from getting too romantic
and besides
the first time is always the hardest)
The second time should be much better,
much better. He
takes her to see a play
of beauty and dreams and rising hope
of ideals and excellencies
of the triumph of love as it soars--
spread wings like a glittering stained-glass dragonfly
spread wings like a strong bright redwing blackbird
spread wings like a slow elegance in blue (heron)--
love soars down to the water
and breathes
jewelled breaths like the wind from dragonfly wings
The second act will be better,
much better -- She
is not beautiful, and her tangled black hair falls down
her narrow back
like a black cascade he longs to--no
like a black waterfall he longs to--no
like the black wings of love's redwing blackbird--no
like tangled black hair that she hasn't remembered
to brush
in four days and an evening. Probably she
doesn't care
(He longs to--no
He wants to--yes--he
wants to touch her tangled black hair
but suddenly she leans forward to look at something
on stage and he
is afraid
to startle her)
The second time must be better
(He says afterwards
Did you like it?
Sentimental gush,
she tells him. We should've gone to the movies.
Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
Maybe she means it)
Saturday evening she says she won't go to dinner
with him--it's her NRA club's monthly
meeting
He knows she is lying. He buys roses
By the third time things ought to be smooth
like a lake on a day with no wind
like the frosting on his sister's eighth birthday chocolate cake
like the engine of his father's sixty-nine MGB
Beautiful
He starts to write a poem
When he comes to pick her up at her apartment
Sunday evening the roses
are gone
Third time things ought to be smooth
(I boiled them,
she says, with rosemary, to make
a wash for my hands
Winter makes my skin flake off
it's disgusting)
(her kitchen smells like boiled roses
and rosemary)
(so do her hands)
The third time things ought to go smoothly
like cream pouring in a silkwhite waterfall
like skin washed with roses and rosemary
It's Sunday night and
everything is closed; his mistake
there is one place open and upscale--
He forgot about reservations
She leaves him standing by the door and
goes down to the dirty bridge over
the dirty river and
sits in her billow of ugly black dress
while the stars shine in the dirty river
He follows her down
Someone throws a bottle into the water
and it splashes silver
the spray is dirty and makes slick droplets in her tangled
black hair
that shine in the dirty black river of her hair like stars
The third time things should go smooth
like oil floating rainbow on the water
(I,
he says)
(Bastards,
she says)
(speaking is heavier than the silence)
By the fourth time they ought to be in love
He waits for the long-legged
blue-winged heron to glide down
with easy elegance, but
she trips in the museum and breaks a display case
the bronze bowl dents the wood floor
He sees her blush for the first time
red and splotched and strange
her hands clench
Outside, autumn is just as hot and low
and smokes and thickly
as summer. She
coughs.
His poem is finish, so he gives it to her
(Sentimental gush, she says
You could have quoted
Ambrose Bierce
He knows she is lying again)
Her black dress gets damp because outside
it just rained
her black tangle of hair, in the wet and hot,
curls like wood shavings in his grandfather's workshop
like peels of bark his grandmother stripped from a sassafras
like the fleece of his mother's lamb they were raising for Easter dinner
like coils of seaweed in a mermaid's hand
(he should have used that in his poem)
It's the fourth time, and they should be in love,
but
she straightens her damp black dress
and wants to go home
there is glass in her hand
from the broken display
(Not yet--
he says)
(Why not?
she asks)
She leaves his poem on the stone steps (by mistake)
so he gives it to her again
He buys more roses. This time
they're purple
he wishes there were roses
the colour of her eyes
This is the fourth time, and they should be in love.
He pays the museum for the broken display
while she walks home alone
She would not wait.
Fifth time
(Hello!)
Her hollow self almost does not turn, but
then she looks to see who
is shouting
The Italian Garden is open to-day
He could take her to the movies
or the midnight cave tours
or to Europe
or to Australia
or to a bagel shop just out of town
where you can get
a half dozen blueberry bagels
for four dollars after four o'clock
She prefers sesame, but
they put cream cheese on blueberry bagels
and she looks out the window while he watches her
(Your hair--)
(I need to wash it.
Well, yes. But I like it anyway)
(I hate blueberry)
They feed pieces of bagel to the ducks who swim
in the dirty river
Fifth time
The glass from the broken display case came out of her hand
all right
with hot tweezers and a needle, or maybe
the other way around--he
isn't really listening.
She crouches on the rocks in the shallows with her knees
up by her shoulder, bending and squatting
her hollow body
into a funny shape
her black dress gets wet at the hem
the ducks quack stupidly
(I love you)
(I can't hear you)
Fifth time
He hates ducks
Her black hair tangles down her back
She is like a redwing blackbird--no
or a February--no
or a spruce tree in a dark forest up the ridge of a mountain--no
or the word miracle spelled backwards--no
or--no
or--no, no, she is like
she is like
(I love you,
he says)
(You fool,
she says)
(So he kisses her, knees in the shallows, as the dirty water
soaks his pantslegs
and the ducks go on quacking for more
blueberry bagel
and she
smiles crookedly)
(Now that was a real love story,
he is sure)
(Idiot,
she says)
Fifth time
(Fifth time)
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How long did it take to write?
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An hour? Some of the fact-checking took a little time, but not too much.
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(And ahahaha, Fantasticks!)
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(I lovvvve iiit.)
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wow.
i didn't know ordinary people could write like this. of course, you're far from ordinary. it's --
*smiles* wow.
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thank you.
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