the first love poem written in December

 

 

 

I want a painting of women in blond wigs. Dancing.

I might love still,

the deserved lonliness of words,

needing to dazzle, I think

my shyness. Can you imagine

a Black man with two good legs

writing poetry? Listening like a

Thessalonian

for the tin spins

that cling; that belong?

On another planet, gay men

meet in gas-station rest rooms

and after tapping toes, and little else,

f**k eachothers brains out

as if, like poem

tenderness is the sky of risky

behaviors.

 

Although they thought me

psychotic for collecting the

instructions for dew, for warm

mornings, I learned images

out of spite, in place of symbols.

Held kisses to the light,

I have. Because the

world can be unreasonable. Grandma

freely tells me of the days when water

was boiled on wood stoves for bathing. (?)

Yet I know what beauty is. How it

scrapes together earth for planting crops;

for burials.

 

How it survives only to fly off in the

particulate of Plath and Lazarus.

How you wake up, so awfully afraid

to go forth:

 

There's a fat girl at Family Dollar

I love, for the way she shimmies and shakes,

 

and she loves me.

Reviews

[Marie Anzalone]

I had someone- a man I actually have slept with and have feelings for- tell me recently that a) he does not love me for my body except for my eyes (because his other woman's body is far better than mine), and b) I cannot possibly know what love is because I am not and have never been, married. I will not repeat my response to him, because I am trying to maintain some image of decorum on this site. Some.

The point of my rambling is this- we fall into a serious logical fallacy whenever we try try to define who is and who is not owed an experience in life- say, love. And poetry then becomes the dialogue, the vessel, and it can be used to shut down and tear down another human being (which I have seen so many do) or to build them up and hold them it light and love. I do not think I have to point out which yours does here.

I will say, that when I was learning belly dancing (loooong story), we gals were told that some moves look better when done by skinny young things... and others are better offered up by more mature ladies, with curves and enough flesh to actually shimmy. and shake. Dare I point out the deliciousness of a shuddering woman in the throes? I say, tell her.

[W.k.kortas]

The counter-intuitive imagery--from the notion of love poetry in December (as if a young man's fancy turns to love in Winter) to the odd imagery of the fat girl at Family Dollar--would lead you to believe this could be an anti-love poem, but love comes here in odd and decidedly unromantic guises here, as to say it comes in the clothing of something else which seems its opposite, and so soil begets both crops and burials. This is top-shelf, first-rank writing.

[MsJewel]

There are so many layers to this wonderful poem and the message is lovely.
There's a fat girl at Family Dollar
I love, for the way shimmies and shakes,
and she loves me.
The perfect ending to a poem I won't soon forget.
:) Julie

[emmajoy]

' .. psychotic for collecting the ~ instructions for dew, for warm mornings, I learned images ~ out of spite, in place of symbols. ~ Held kisses to the light, ~ I have. '
The sweet and lovely phrasing of the above jump onto earthy full-on scenes that near jolt the senses.. and then then the poet sslips into that soft finish. The whole is like a short movie and captures the imagination! Interesting content and style, truly.

A piece with a great message in it, through all the details you pick out towards little things, and appreciations in life dana. You are master in these poetic observations, and point them out like a painter, colorful, and with raw truth in it. This piece brought me a satisfaction, of how we should love, and not to be afraid of fully accept one and another. There lays perfection in this. Thanks a lot.

- Elisa xo