Saturday, January 22, 2011

Pajamas
for D.B.A.

i.
loving you on one side
then on the other side

is that what I am doing
with antipathy, empathy, sympathy

how many sides have you anyway
sweetheart, sweet pickle

right-side-up, up-side-down
right side, left side
on your back and on your belly

what part of you or side of you
my darling, have I not visited
what spot of your anatomy
have I not kissed

what opening in your anatomy
has poetry not been in
have I not poked or shoved in
with pencil, with pen

my tongue longs to follow
long tongue to follow
wherever it leads you
wherever or whatever
it leads to

ii.
wall up, walled in, walled out
on the outside of it
pressed up against it
like I was up against the wall
of Hemingway's house
in Key West once

with a pen, with note book
staring through, staring into mystery

thousands of lines of verse
written in amazement
written to marvel at her

imagine she is wonderful
imagine she is not
or that she is and is flawed

all that I marvel at, wonder about
is for her entirely commonplace
as commonplace as my own anatomy
I live in always, I sit up in now
clothed in pajamas
body I nurse, feed, relieve

to hers, to herself, she has
the very same relationship

what I write poems about
make windows in the wall
in the world to see or try to
she has immediate access to

can button up or unbutton
can zip up or unzip

is it her clothes though
that poems zip open
that I with pen unbuttons

or do I- do they- do these
unbutton, unzip body and soul

what clothes clothe, hide
part of the trinity of things
one element of three elements of her

layers of her I wish to get at
to bare, be with, lie with, lay with

all these poems, this effort
this yearning for what
a wall up, walls in, walls out

wall as thin or as thick
as her will, her willingness
to let me or not let me see

any way to earn the right to
have I not that right
having, with my pen,
penetrated all the way
to the core of the matter
heart upon a platter

penetrated to the soul of her soul
to the soles of the feet
of this flat-footed gyal



© Obediah Michael Smith, 2011
Written on Friday, January 21, 2011
between 8:10 a.m. and 2:53 p.m.

2 Comments:

Anonymous d.a. said...

Shouldn't your concluding line be instead "to the soles of this flat-footed gyal?" I do appreciate your poems all of them well, most because there are those that thrash and bash me- nevertheless I can appreciate your range of emotions the ups and downs and ups again- that can make a person dizzy you know? The truth is my life would not be nearly as vibrant or even fulfilling without poetry to fill my cup up to mend my torn pajamas and to cradle the baby that I am or can be. Of course there are certain facets of you or what we share that I will never or not soon "get" or adjust to -sometimes there is way too much pork on my plate or rather fruits and fish-which you would prefer me to eat on my plate and the thought of it is uncomfortably filling but this experience has been a rare jewel and for that I know I especially special. (p.s. I do hope this response compensates for my lack of responses to the other poems I have read them but I was busy with a Math project I may go back to comment though)

Saturday, January 22, 2011 10:28:00 AM  
Blogger Obie Quiet said...

Dee, you are, when you are ready to be, when you are wiling to be, so unbearably delicious. Thank you for what you actually invite me to do to you - for how you invite me to do you with the line you invited me to instead conclude with. I modified it just a little. I thank you for it and for your even more than wonderful attitude and spirit. My wish is that you can be that way with me always and in all things - so compliant, so cooperative - so facilitating. Must confess I had experimented with such a conclusion but it seemed to negate you and the poem. It seemed derogatory and poetry does not or should not behave like that. With you inviting such a concluding note though it seems more like or instead like fun and games. How very much I like the games we can sometimes play. Do not at all like when you choose instead to bolt the doors and windows too and refuse ever so stubbornly to come out to play. Peter and Brenda, how interesting are your parents' names. Do not understand why I was, before today, not ready to know their two names in the way that I know and use yours. How much older am I than they are?

Saturday, January 22, 2011 8:11:00 PM  

Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home