Thursday, April 08, 2010

A Cappella April
for D.B.A. & Dorman Stubbs
& Lavanda Cleare

i.
I have you to thank and to blame
for happiness, for joy, for this day

up and about after two-plus hours of sleep
ring me, wake me, able to push me, pull me
with what firm hands, with what decisiveness

obedient to you as I am to love
to be for me as I am

more on my side, more like me, than wife to be
our simpatico greater, more of a piece

why this is, how it came to be, a mystery
it is good good good, I do not question
do not complain

rejoice is what I'm called to do
this alone and without end

would Beethoven's Ninth have been
too great a response, too great a tribute

I have not yet surpassed that
nor have I surpassed Ulysses
work of Joyce of his affair with Dublin
or his affair with Nora Barnacle

not a matter of so many poems
I'm writing or I've written
one single work I'm working on

unfinished until it's done
one work for my one love

ii.
in any opening, in every opening, I put a song
of every opening, I'd sing a song

her body, my body, could clean her like
I'd clean myself

clean her as well with tongue
like a cat cleans a kitten

why she is so holy, so precious
so wholly desirable, I haven't a clue

kissed a girl once, bottoms of two feet
to the top of her head

love inspired that, made her pure, dirt free
inspired like that again


as many kisses in my mouth
make a mosaic
over her anatomy,
as many kisses
as leaves upon a tree

kisses fall like leaves fall
tamarind leaves, tiny leaves, as many as these

how in a swirl these fall, entangled in a breeze
in a twist of wind, of weather

iii.
how to look at, what to look at, aught we to look
are we to see, to hear, to taste, to smell, to feel

this artist's worth, this artist's words
squiggling, dripping, scribbling, wiggling away

its way into being
shapes and sizes, full of surprises
avenues, lanes, colors, schemes

after three visits, this painting, as if a friend to me
as if a friend of mine, speaks, sings
bells ring

bird song, an amoeba’s body and pseudopodia

blue paint, where is all this going on
all this right or all this wrong

all these thoughts, feelings, accounted for
able to write with light upon darkness

Dorman with his brush
others with their blood, dripping, pouring

iv.
rock guitar, rock steady music
Grateful Dead
guitar to smash
at the climax of the concert
to end the event

all this against the sky
all that we do or say,
we hurl into the face of heaven

await response, a smile or grumble
or rumble of bellies

nothing to put in them
not even a grape
not even a raisin

v.
tired of my words
I'm reluctant to speak to you
or of you but what can I do

if you fill my blood, my pen
my heart, my soul

what can I sneeze or cough
or cry or piss or spit
without you in it

vi.
un-Dorman-like
able to do and to undo ourselves
when we choose or when we must

renew ourselves, our art
when we're tired of old days
of old things, of old ways

vii.
need for dark
knees for dark
to pray for light
for what's nice

night and a painter
splashing colors
on pieces of wood
on pieces of board
to bring on a new day

viii.
step in here after running up stairs
find I am unable easily to breathe

not because I'm out of breath
that might be part of it
but because of memories

happy at present,
added to it, memories of happiness

of meeting you in this place
our meeting place
like Tom's Diner
for Suzanne Vega

in which her song, sung a capella
was born, song I love

it is not raining, I am in Nassau
first day of April, not in New York

state I'm in, in love
cannot easily be surpassed

years I lived imagining
love's springs had dried up
were no more

tied to you, knotted too
lines of verse
like instruments, like strings


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
Written between 2:25 p.m.
and 5:41 p.m. on Thursday,
April 1, 2010

3 Comments:

Anonymous D.A. said...

To really be connected to someone, that they become an integral part of your life, that everything in and out of your body is them must really be love or an obsession.

Friday, April 09, 2010 4:45:00 PM  
Anonymous D.A. said...

This poem flows very well, close to being a song, like spoken word, spoken and unspoken love.

Me encanta.

Friday, April 09, 2010 11:16:00 PM  
Blogger Obie Quiet said...

Oh, how happy I am, dba, for your responses to this poem. Your having conspired with whomever to get me out of bed and going: carpe diem, you seemed to suggest. I did just that and this resulted. What happens in The Central Bank with you in mind and in response to Dorman's paintings, is joyous, marvelous and mysterious. I love what follows in Starbucks, shortly after, with you in me and in mind. I was so in love with you that day. It has to be that euphoria, that joie de vivre, which you are reading and sensing. Your responses are precious and very helpful. Your wanting to dismantle this and to dismantle us, makes me so sad. I shall have to shift to writing dirges, my darling.

Saturday, April 10, 2010 12:05:00 AM  

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