Aubade of the Fireflies, with Lilies
Aubade of the Fireflies, with Lilies
I need to lie here, in the sun, its light waking
my body by warming the quilts. I need to
linger here, awhile, letting the grass dictate.
Your skin last night was soft as moss,
your scent of feral oregano. The tallest red lilies
are almost done blooming; nothing like you.
New pink callas emerge at dusk, waiting till midday
to blush their fullest. I lie in the sun, waiting.
Fireflies made the pear tree shimmer with bottled light.
Staircases of green anemones. Your hair waving
in the evening breeze as though undersea.
An absolute geometry undescribed in any esoteric scroll.
Rhizomatous, matted, fragrant with pine pollen. How tangled
we become with each other, at night, limbs and hair
made one in the soup of our sweat. I am
thoroughly basted in you, you marinated in me.
Not much to do now but roast ourselves into one flesh.
Tonight I'll make a grass pillow for your rest. I'll catch
a lantern full of green-flashing luminaria,
firefly lamps to light your table. And I'll release
each light-kissed remnant before night fails.
I need to lie here, in the sun, its light waking
my body by warming the quilts. I need to
linger here, awhile, letting the grass dictate.
Your skin last night was soft as moss,
your scent of feral oregano. The tallest red lilies
are almost done blooming; nothing like you.
New pink callas emerge at dusk, waiting till midday
to blush their fullest. I lie in the sun, waiting.
Fireflies made the pear tree shimmer with bottled light.
Staircases of green anemones. Your hair waving
in the evening breeze as though undersea.
An absolute geometry undescribed in any esoteric scroll.
Rhizomatous, matted, fragrant with pine pollen. How tangled
we become with each other, at night, limbs and hair
made one in the soup of our sweat. I am
thoroughly basted in you, you marinated in me.
Not much to do now but roast ourselves into one flesh.
Tonight I'll make a grass pillow for your rest. I'll catch
a lantern full of green-flashing luminaria,
firefly lamps to light your table. And I'll release
each light-kissed remnant before night fails.
Labels: Aubade poem series, poem
posted by Art Durkee at 11:42 AM
2 Comments:
I get the feeling that this is one of those you-really-need-to-have-been there kind of poems, a celebration of a moment. Maybe I’m just tired this morning but I don’t find myself caught up in it. The imagery is fine, evocative, apart from the last three lines in the second stanza. The cooking imagery feels out of place. I’d cut them but don’t chuck them. I think you could work up something else around them. They just don’t work here, for me.
I don't mind it if personal experience enriches a poem. It does mean that different people will get more or less out of the poem. I like it when the universal human experience arises out of the particular and personal, and when empathy has a chance to make connections. I don't mind it that not everything is for everybody. It brings up the question of who do we write for, anyway? For ourselves first, I think. Others hopefully come along for the ride, but the ride's not obligatory.
As for cooking and sex, they're the same kind of immersive sensual experiences, at least as far as I'm concerned. I wrote a poem once about making breakfast for one's lover the morning after a long night of sex. It's one of my more erotic poems, without being explicit. At least it is for me. But I freely admit to being a foodie, because food is very sensual, or ought to be.
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