Sacred Interrupting Sacred
for D.B.A. & G.M.
aborted the poem
I’d commenced writing you last evening
I had to, phone rang
it was Dee on the line
did ignore it for a few rings
to get down a final image, a final thought
but I was feeling you, filled with you
we were having- were in the throes
of poetic intercourse
way away, far away, in the snow, away
far from thrown away
you were amusing me
my chief muse and me, attached
Dee coming between us, taking us apart
“Were you writing me a poem?” she asked
she knows I usual am
or something or other about her
amazing her ability to ask such questions
devoid of conceit or ego
it is just that I am devoted to her
have been for some months
several hundred poems is proof of it
her high station, that room in my heart
now has a partition, made of Formica
or is a membrane
is a room for two, for her and you
thought to or had to explain to her
who I was in bed with
to you I feel it is-
find it to be necessary
to confess as well
who it was- why it was
I had to abort abruptly
connection we were having
in church as it were
and having to end the service
my mother, God rest her soul,
used to think it unacceptable, unforgivable
for my brother or me or anybody
to switch off the radio
while a preacher was preaching
however foolish or whatever foolishness
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
9:45 a.m. 18.08.10
for D.B.A. & G.M.
aborted the poem
I’d commenced writing you last evening
I had to, phone rang
it was Dee on the line
did ignore it for a few rings
to get down a final image, a final thought
but I was feeling you, filled with you
we were having- were in the throes
of poetic intercourse
way away, far away, in the snow, away
far from thrown away
you were amusing me
my chief muse and me, attached
Dee coming between us, taking us apart
“Were you writing me a poem?” she asked
she knows I usual am
or something or other about her
amazing her ability to ask such questions
devoid of conceit or ego
it is just that I am devoted to her
have been for some months
several hundred poems is proof of it
her high station, that room in my heart
now has a partition, made of Formica
or is a membrane
is a room for two, for her and you
thought to or had to explain to her
who I was in bed with
to you I feel it is-
find it to be necessary
to confess as well
who it was- why it was
I had to abort abruptly
connection we were having
in church as it were
and having to end the service
my mother, God rest her soul,
used to think it unacceptable, unforgivable
for my brother or me or anybody
to switch off the radio
while a preacher was preaching
however foolish or whatever foolishness
© Obediah Michael Smith, 2010
9:45 a.m. 18.08.10
posted by Obie Quiet at 10:56 AM
2 Comments:
I guess that preacher wasnt Anglican or Catholic then. Is this poem a confession well another one like going to the confessional twice in one day, would I be the father on duty on call calling you or you calling me as you are normally even when I dont hear from you at all, if so Id tell you to go away until I was sure you were sincere in your prayers. (or you a butterfly net to catch what was heaven sent heaven bound now to be found in my pockets in my socks in my sockets)
"...pockets, socks and sockets" - what and amazing combination of nouns and how like verbs they seem. They do evoke thoughts of socking it, soaking it, soaking in it, sucking it and other thoughts besides - and the very erotic plug and socket image. This response of yours, dba, it seems was as inspired as our poems are. I am grateful for such a rich rich response. But no, what you have contained in brackets above, is actually a poem. I do encourage you to carry it away - that is without actually taking it away - and complete it and title it. I'd be happy to see what it becomes or is made into. I'd love to see what sort of hat you might choose to adorn it in or with. I cannot help but love you.
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