poem: what I write

My mouth says good morning.

My fingers type good morning.

My hands write good morning.

 

and what I mean by good morning

could not be interred in a hundred years' writing

by all the best novelists in Europe and North America.

 

you might as well try to fit a quasar inside of a light pen.

 

When I say good morning, I mean that this day

I awoke smiling because your feet walk in my world

I placed my hand upon my heart and imagined it, yours.

 

I drew breath and thought I tasted you in my air

I ran my hands down my sides using your fingertips

I touched between my thighs and was warmed by your heat.

 

I remembered dreaming pink roses and wanted to paint them

in oils, in dewy soft understated brilliance, for you.

 

As with so many other things I could find to tell you, if I tried.

How inevitable annihilation is less scary if some part of you,

would remember me; how golden light and morning mist make me want

to be lost in a forest primeval, with you.

 

How sometimes I am so certain you are there, I feel your weight

shift off the mattress when I return to this world. And how

none of this is anything I could ever actually say to you.

 

So instead, I simply write, with a fond mental caress:

good morning, my friend.

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

this poem was translated into Spanish:

http://www.writerscafe.org/writing/zorra_encantada/1190188/

Reviews

[Commanda Panda]

This was intimate on so many levels. It makes the reader feel wanted and want you at the same time. Reading your words created a welcoming vision of someone dear to me inviting me in warmly on so many levels; mentally, emotionally, physically, sexually, all in a pure and genuine way.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank yuo, Panda. If you got that form this poem, then I would say that you definitely intepreted it correctly... especially that part about all the levels. Surprise there- not many talk openly about the necessity of all four. Or the necessity of deciding which one, or combination thereof, you want to have fulfilled at any given point, moment, or act of love. Because it changes like the tides.

[Marie Anzalone]

*from

[Commanda Panda]

I only speak this way to those who can handle intelligent conversation.

[Marie Anzalone]

likewise

[Traci]

This is the first piece of yours I've read and was truly amazed by your use of imagery and emotions portrayed in each word. The honesty was heartfelt, so much more than just words.

and what I mean by good morning
could not be interred in a hundred years' writing
by all the best novelists in Europe and North America.

you might as well try to fit a quasar inside of a light pen.

My fav lines. Great job Marie, and I definitely look forward to reading more of your work.

[Marie Anzalone]

Wow- thank you very much for the kind proaise, Traci. I am very happy you enjoyed this little piece. It was penned while sitting in a cafe in the Guatemala City airport, waiting for a student to arrive, after a stressful 5 hour bus and taxi ride to get to said airport. I find that long journeys via public transit are very conductive to extremes of passion and melancholia. Or, maybe I jst hang around too many Latinos.

Thanks for stopping by- kind review was much appreciated.

[ChemicalMadness]

You told me a while back you could never imagine being with someone who wasn't a poet....I think you might be enough poet for two...this was wonderful. You were right, these words might be wasted on one who simply reads words, strung together as sentences, stripped of sentiment and wonder....and what a tremendous waste that would be. I could've used your words so many years ago....but these words here, today....they just might tide me over. Thank you.
CM.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you, CM. If what I wrote can serve you in some way, I am most glad that my little words found their way to your eyes. You see the reason I say I need to have a poet in my life to understand me- the wonder. Far too many forget to let words be magic, with their power to caress our skin with their reach, and seduce us slowly over the course of a shared life. I simply can no longer imagine it any other way. Can you?

[ChemicalMadness]

Can I imagine it? Yes. Would I choose it knowingly? No.

[Marie Anzalone]

we think alike in many ways, I believe

[ChemicalMadness]

I think I will take that as a compliment

[Horizon K.]

I love your poetry Marie, and this one painted in the soft morning light of yearning...and the vivid images you write of this former love... I think you succeeded in fitting a quasar into your pen...

[Marie Anzalone]

Interesting that so many of you saw this as someone former and passed... wouldn't someone you loved in the past already know of your feelings towards them? This one, I thought, came out more as unrequited when I explored his meaning. Then again, he started in Spanish, and these damned things always take on a life of their own.

Thanks, Horizon, I love your reviews, and am glad you like my work. It means a LOT to me!

[Horizon K.]

I see... Yes these visions of love, unrequited, sewn by words whose meanings can be illusive... Or maybe I'm now applying one of my own poems, Whisper, to your comments... But as for interpreting this as past, re-reading this I see that thought was born by one word, remember...

[jacob erin-cilberto]

this is incredible...either to a lover being missed or someone who has passed...we imagine them so hard we can feel their hands on us, we can feel the kisses, the warmth of them...

such beautiful wording here..
jacob

[Marie Anzalone]

Thanks, jacob. I owe you a few reviews,I know. I can see where you saw the two options you mentioned, but try this one on for size: the beutiful side of unrequited love; the love you know you can never mention out loud, but that sustains you form the inside.

wishing you a beautiful day.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

yes, i can see that too.

[Tree]

What a subtle yet powerful affirmation of one's feelings, how we should all want a morning like this. In the seventh stanza you wrote: ''How inevitable annihilation is less scary if some part of you, would remember me ...'' I thought, this is true. Death, degradation can all be overcome when you know you have made a difference, know that you left a ''good'' piece of you behind for someone to remember you by..

[Marie Anzalone]

Diego, I am watching the sun rise over the Sierra Madre while I write this response, listening to early morning bird songs of about 20 species. The sky is blue and fire. A moment suspended at the southern edge of a city of 120,000 people who all hope someone will love them today. Even the legless beggar in Zone 3, the guy who walks on the palms of his hands, curls up at night with a dog, and someone brings him food every day. A day and a half ago, seven police officers were shot and killed by narcotraffickers just outside of Zone 2. It has come here, then- one of the last holdouts with minimal problems. The military were called in last night to secure the central park, and traffice was backed up for miles. We sat in a cafe, enjoying a cup of slow roasted chocolate. If I am caught in crossfire one day, I hope there is at least one person in this world whose life I touched enough that I would be remembered, that some part of my passing would be documented, dreamed of, touched.

it is not just that we should want a morning like this, my friend. EVERY morning is exactly like this poem, for me. There is this fierce bonfire that awakenes me every day to life renewed, and full fo hope. It often wanes by the end of day, for it takes a lot of fuel to sustain something so pure to day's end. And it takes someone to help you tend the flames, sometimes. One can only hope in due time, perhaps, there will be.

Appreciate your thoughtful words on this. As usual... you made me delve. Thank you for that.

[Marie Anzalone]

PS: In the time it took to write my response, the flame subsided to ordianry light. This is the only place in the world I know where the sun passes faster than the time.

[emmajoy]

The two last lines complete a thrill of words, yet perhaps, a sad adventure into intimate thoughts and feelings for someone physically away yet .. nearer than the toes on your left foot.
Your recent writing wears a warmer coat as if day-to-day has been exchanged for night by night .. your thoughts out there somewhere rather than calmly organised. Beautiful.

[Marie Anzalone]

I apologize, Emma, that I have been out taking care of life while you left such beautiful reviews and messages. You very astutely notice a perception shift. I wondered for a long time how to describe it, and finally think I figured it out. I am a rare equally right-brain, left-brain dominant person (most tend towards one side or the other). However, in the US, grinding economic and stressful daily realities had been forcing me into an altered consciuosness survival mode. I could, for the past 3 years, pretty much ONLY tap into the left hemisphere abilities and realities. Here in Central America, I am more lucid, and I tap more strongly into both. I associate right brain activity with the Spanish language. I write my love poems as a thought first in Spanish, then translate into English words... then sometimes translate the English words back into Spanish. Each time, rather than something bing lost; I think that something is gained.

[h d e rushin]

I wrote a poem to a friend of mind whose son had died of cancer. other than complete occultation,
the interruption of light from a cellestial body,(the stuff of prayer and eclipses) I had nothing else to offer.
sometimes the poet has nothing else to offer and odds are they never will.

i am facinated by how many shapes the love poem can take or how simple words can function as such.
"how golden light and morning mist want me to be lost in a forest primeval" which is a primative sentiment and even a tribal naive sentiment that must transcend all aeons and barriers of civilization.
you have become the advocate of the love poem, pleading the cause of the other less verbose souls

something so sensual has happened here. something true and accurate.nicely done.
dana.

[Marie Anzalone]

Well do I remember that write of yours, dana- it was the only piece on WC I ever rated a 100%. The stuff prayer and eclipses moving into real everyday spaces, indeed! As for the love poem, all I can say is this: I have only ever known how to write my own truth. Isn't that the most any of us can do?

Someone told me once that "God comes to you disguised as your own Life.' Since I believe God is Love, then the same must be true about Love. Isn;t there space to accept and give it every day? Aren't both just as important?

[LJW]

Jaw dropped.

Your very best work.
Perfect as is.

The quasar in the light pen is my favorite line.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thanksm LJ, I am glad you liked this one, and I appreciate the review. The quasar was actually inspired by playing with a laser pen last Friday. Sometimes things come back to you at the darndest times, you know?

[Emily B]

lo quiero

[Marie Anzalone]

creo que lo ya tienes?

[Emily B]

a veces, lo es perdio y entonces lo descubrio otra vez

[Marie Anzalone]

mi esperanza para ti es que tu lo encuentras una vez mas, y que nunca salga cuando regresa... que sea permamente en tu alma como la mitad de tu soledad