(but i imagine that yes is
the only living thing) and we'll make yes
~ e.e. cummings

Sunday, July 17, 2016

Exchange of Vows

love is a place 
& through this place of 
love move 
(with brightness of peace) 
all places 
~ e.e. cummings

Kiss ~ Edvard Munch (1897)



Too many people seek to have
 – as if in owning
they will become more –

and others still
will give their all
 – all in all
for more of same –

and shall we then
 – you and I
for better and worse –
exchange our vows
to have and hold

if having means
losing the selfless me
and holding means
fearing the loss of you?

And will an oath
prove any one thing
 – or two or three
for more and more –
we did not know
as deep as bone:

we gave ourselves
in eyes, lips, sighs
 – not words, or rings
 nor any one to witness –
 the lapping water knows:

these are the sacred shores
of our own country
 – here you and I
give love, have more –
these chosen borders:
your hand in mine.


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Karin Gustafson is In The Market for Poems over at the Imaginary Garden.


Wednesday, July 6, 2016

Diffusion ~ A Sonnet

Presencia Inquietante
Remedios Vara (1959)



Do not leave me now, to sigh for how close I came
to your voice, how close your breath came to my ear.
As close as the rough bark encasing a smooth trunk,
or the feather of a death-struck bird grazing my neck.

If I only turned now – you would take my throat
in your hands like a frail stem of primrose, lay your lips
to my petals and in parting them, sip on dark nectar:
your breath would not be retrieved from my core.

What I am exists because you dug me from the earth
and shaped me with your minstrel’s hands;
when I go down to my grave you will lay me there

and not stone nor root nor rainwater seeping through
will divide me from you, my love, though time unpeels
the lesser elements than your soul diffused through mine.


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Saturday, June 11, 2016

Landscape from a Window

Wind from the Sea ~ Andrew Wyeth (1947)
The National Gallery of Art, Washington, DC
Photograph by Margaret Bednar.



What comes in at the window
is more than the bitter tang of noon grass,
the aftertaste of love’s hidden thunder
you imagined you heard
as you lay, supine, on the single bed
the sunlight askance upon your hip and thigh.

What drifts through the window
is the feather of a bird that fell through sky,
its black mass defines the leaf and blade;
it is the isolation left behind
the corner of a farmhouse where a single garment
snaps the line at the bite of a colder breeze.

What lifts the edge of curtain lace
from the frame is a terrible precision of sight
that views the empty field with horse
standing in its lonely traces,
and sees its own mortality in the landscape
of your shadow cast aside in naked sleep.


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Artistic Interpretations by Margaret features the work of Andrew Wyeth (1917 - 2009)
This poem is inspired by the body of work, as shown on the A. Wyeth Gallery site and other showcase sites.