Lavender Walls
for D.A.
i.
want to forget her age, who she is
apart from this picture, this page
face how she affects me, react to that,
to nothing more
must act in self defense
she happens upon me, hops upon me
as against me as that 8 year old female,
French girl who never wore underwear
who'd leap upon the poet at seven
of whom Rimbaud wrote
kicked and scratched he'd return to his room
after wrestling, after tangling with her
taste of her backside he'd have bitten
in his mouth—a kind of reward
what reward from a picture of her
in white short shorts
ii.
weight of a woman, wait for a woman
as right as she is
woman in bed, woman to wed
just the right amount of ounces, inches
amount of flesh,
amount of fresh fish for my appetite
fry one each night for the rest of my life
God Almighty knows who I'm to meet,
made for me: what duet, what two instruments
out of wood, shape harpsichord, double bass
what is it though about this woman's weight
haunting to see
grey T-shirt, cut off, show her belly bare
her navel orange
short white shorts, show wheat-brown thighs
shaped like a woman I dreamed up
this picture’s real, can weigh her in two arms
in bed already, need not carry her anywhere
pillow cases on two pillows, butterflies cover
what a weight of woman, how she fills my senses
hadn't a clue she was so wonderful to look at
girl-child a week ago, woman fully now
full grown somehow, happened over night
woke up—what to behold
are my eyes lying to me, is she fooling me
able to mesmerize easily
leaning against her bed head
behind it, behind her, lavender wall
bare feet in bed, I in a spell
don't know what to say, don’t know what to do
see her, something happens to me
I am unable to name
what to do to claim her, if possible
I have words, wish I had paint brushes
a painter's brush strokes, I'd trap her in these
already captured by flashing light,
by a camera clicking, already pinned
as well as liberated against her room wall
slave to beauty, to subtlety
fancy bed head and her body, similar mahogany
she is flesh and warm and woman
stand upon my body, able to withstand her weight
drawn to her, to who seems hauntingly familiar
missing rib I've been looking for maybe
what God made it into while I was sound asleep
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
6:34 a.m. 12.08.09
for D.A.
i.
want to forget her age, who she is
apart from this picture, this page
face how she affects me, react to that,
to nothing more
must act in self defense
she happens upon me, hops upon me
as against me as that 8 year old female,
French girl who never wore underwear
who'd leap upon the poet at seven
of whom Rimbaud wrote
kicked and scratched he'd return to his room
after wrestling, after tangling with her
taste of her backside he'd have bitten
in his mouth—a kind of reward
what reward from a picture of her
in white short shorts
ii.
weight of a woman, wait for a woman
as right as she is
woman in bed, woman to wed
just the right amount of ounces, inches
amount of flesh,
amount of fresh fish for my appetite
fry one each night for the rest of my life
God Almighty knows who I'm to meet,
made for me: what duet, what two instruments
out of wood, shape harpsichord, double bass
what is it though about this woman's weight
haunting to see
grey T-shirt, cut off, show her belly bare
her navel orange
short white shorts, show wheat-brown thighs
shaped like a woman I dreamed up
this picture’s real, can weigh her in two arms
in bed already, need not carry her anywhere
pillow cases on two pillows, butterflies cover
what a weight of woman, how she fills my senses
hadn't a clue she was so wonderful to look at
girl-child a week ago, woman fully now
full grown somehow, happened over night
woke up—what to behold
are my eyes lying to me, is she fooling me
able to mesmerize easily
leaning against her bed head
behind it, behind her, lavender wall
bare feet in bed, I in a spell
don't know what to say, don’t know what to do
see her, something happens to me
I am unable to name
what to do to claim her, if possible
I have words, wish I had paint brushes
a painter's brush strokes, I'd trap her in these
already captured by flashing light,
by a camera clicking, already pinned
as well as liberated against her room wall
slave to beauty, to subtlety
fancy bed head and her body, similar mahogany
she is flesh and warm and woman
stand upon my body, able to withstand her weight
drawn to her, to who seems hauntingly familiar
missing rib I've been looking for maybe
what God made it into while I was sound asleep
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
6:34 a.m. 12.08.09
posted by Obie Quiet at 6:36 AM
2 Comments:
This would be my favorite. I was lost in the color of the poem with its assortment of shades and tones that blended so nicely to form what seems to be a mental image that was engraved in the mind.
Definitely worth the 3 scores and ten. NO?
it is hard to write a good love poem, they can easily be overwritten, become all airy-fairy. this poem snaps an image of the beloved in a single moment in time, the picture she makes shows us what love is in this single moment for the poet, honestly, without sentimentality... thanks obi
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