|photo credit: Rick Kopstein|
(with added help from the simians at Pic Monkey)
So, it's World Poetry Day, and my good friend Jim King got me thinking of the old poet in me.
The truth is, before I ever wrote books, my first love was poetry, though the last poem I wrote was probably in my mid-twenties.
After that, there was the law school phase and then the lawyer phase that I'm fond of saying, "sucked the creativity right out of me."
Then there were: marriage and kids, and the practice of law, and, ultimately, when I returned to writing, it was with the (daunting) hopes of writing a novel in mind.
There was The Jetty (agented, but never sold), Swim Back to Me(agented but not sold, with new life breathed into it -- maybe, maybe not, The Pull of Gravity (sold!) Frankie Sky now The Summer of Letting Go coming Spring 2014, etc.
But before all that, I wrote poetry.
It was my first love, and my friend Jim has sent me into a bit of a reverie. . . (bear in mind I was only 21... ;))
heavy air blankets the up-down rhythm
clocks and other night noises
float to me
here aah, settle
to Autumn patterns
play and remind
(play and remind)
and, hey, you're too big for my heart
and hot covers stifle
as somewhere water drips
slow one, two
the radio and other sounds turned on to drown out
the constant, hollow fall of wet
but the man tells:
gunfire where you are
like he's reading from cue cards through static
Somewhere, between dark and mourning
I wake to call you
through dry cracked lips and no sound
only your name in my ears
and, hey, you're too big for my head.
Temptations in Blue
(when you close your eyes, he said,
think only of blues)
so tightly I do
that I am at once surrounded and carried off
to where we can be.
there I float, as sea upon sea takes me
(though I tell no one, I recognize it is the blue of your eyes)
and I am safe to fall back where
somewhere, between childhood and pain
it begins to break
into icy-cold marbles that tease and elude my uneasy hands
the fingers left groping at angels' wings
where I resurface I am lightheaded and weightless
flooded by turquoise so brilliant it pulls me
I do not follow but hold
to the edge of a peacock's tail
its cobalt center
trembles and bursts
and silently folds
where I cannot remain
but try to
- gae 8/13/85