Thursday, April 29, 2010

Wings across Waves
for D.B.A.

what is old old old
made new new new
with a pencil, with lines drawn

and without color left
building to be painted yet

that new, that just constructed
was a prison once, is a library now

here since Woodes Rogers or just after
but as if demolished, reconstructed

in 2001, rededicated
HKRolle architect and contractor

by a single hand, erected again, anew
while people inside selected books
and sat and read

school children in their varied uniforms
research assignments
study for exams in the library down town

attached to her, how do I mess up
or not dress up

note of neglect, I must alter, must uproot
in its place, put a flowering plant

pretty world for her, pretty words
pretty me for her as well

old need not mean ugly
look at castles, look at trees

poui, silk cotton, others
some a century, some a few centuries
and flowering still, blossoming still

giving shade, beneath branches, limbs
leaves in abundance, in intricate patterns

almond light, almond life
almonds drop and what perfume

why therefore should I neglect me
leave me undone, unkempt

baby to love, who loves me
tied to the breath in her
by the breath in me

tied by the verse I write
verse she writes

she and I united,
in a multiplicity of intricate ways

in order that we are not easily
disassembled or dismantled
disjointed, dislocated

or just divided by forces
opposed to union between us

to our being united
as long as our lives last
or as long as language lasts

this alphabet we learned
as children

has she snapped
whether or not she has
she certainly snapped at me today

snapped at, snapped up
or nearly snapped the hand that feeds her

“I am busy,” she said, “not now!”

could hardly believe my ears, my eyes

usually she is happy to see me
greets me with a hug and a smile

is she upset because I'm in love
was not at all happy to hear that I am

out of relationship I was in and into another

she'd said to me two or a few weeks ago

jokingly or maybe not
“If you do not marry her,
“you can always marry me”

laughing, showing all her teeth
meaning it possibly

unable to figure what else
I might have done, could have done
to wrong her, to get in her bad books

what could I have thrown
into the spokes of her wheel, of her whirl

hope it is not the same cock
they've been sitting on

the same morning come
the same cock crowing

the same sun
big in them

are we intact, in touch, touching
connected, in spite of out of touch
as we have been since Monday

worry when I do not, when I cannot
hear from you

when without reaffirmation
reassurance of the sort entailed
in seeing you, hearing from you

on the phone or getting response
to e-mail sent or seeing something

poem I can pounce on, critique
get into the bone marrow of

poems you send, I know
are another way we connect
you send me these

complement of hearing from you though
and joy like outburst
joy I am unable to contain

abide what I must as long as I must
until euphoria picks me up

until you lift me up
as a baby might be lifted up
in outstretched arms

baby just short of touching the ceiling
I just short of touching the sky

when you meet you in me
like what prayer is

when Christ in us,
is praying to himself in heaven
himself a part of Holy Trinity

our unit, union, holy too, holy two

you from heaven
come to dying day, to dying days

footsteps to exchange
for flapping wings
for flowing waves

© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
Written between 2:20 p.m. and 6:22 p.m.
on Wednesday, 28th April 2010


Anonymous D.A. said...

"Poetry is plucking at the heartstrings, and making music with them."
-Dennis Gabor

"Poetry is a search for ways of communication; it must be conducted with openness, flexibility, and a constant readiness to listen."
-Fleur Adcock

Friday, April 30, 2010 9:37:00 PM  

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