When a Woman Loves a Man

When a Woman Loves a Man
by David Lehman

When she says margarita she means daiquiri.
When she says quixotic she means mercurial.
And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again,"
she means, "Put your arms around me from behind
as I stand disconsolate at the window."

He's supposed to know that.

When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia
or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading,
or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he
is raking leaves in Ithaca
or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate
at the window overlooking the bay
where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on
while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway.

When a woman loves a man it is one ten in the morning
she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels
drinking lemonade
and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed
where she remains asleep and very warm.

When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks.
When she says, "We're talking about me now,"
he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says,
"Did somebody die?"

When a woman loves a man, they have gone
to swim naked in the stream
on a glorious July day
with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle
of water rushing over smooth rocks,
and there is nothing alien in the universe.

Ripe apples fall about them.
What else can they do but eat?

When he says, "Ours is a transitional era,"
"that's very original of you," she replies,
dry as the martini he is sipping.

They fight all the time
It's fun
What do I owe you?
Let's start with an apology
Ok, I'm sorry, you dickhead.
A sign is held up saying "Laughter."
It's a silent picture.
"I've been fucked without a kiss," she says,
"and you can quote me on that,"
which sounds great in an English accent.

One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it
another nine times.

When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the
airport in a foreign country with a jeep.
When a man loves a woman he's there. He doesn't complain that
she's two hours late
and there's nothing in the refrigerator.

When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake.
She's like a child crying
at nightfall because she didn't want the day to end.

When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking:
as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved.
A thousand fireflies wink at him.
The frogs sound like the string section
of the orchestra warming up.
The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes.

poem about no one

we ♥ it

she is a lotus
blooming in my throat
stretching and wrapping her roots
around my chakras
she is chamomile on my tongue
strawberry on my lips
this girl is the earth
pulling my feet down
and the sun light
that sinks into me
like teeth in the morning

Ode on a Grecian Urn

I am reminded of this poem as I dream of things that have not yet come to be. Is it better to keep these things as dreams? According to John Keats, yes!

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thou express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunt about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal - yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Writing is sexy, rock 'n roll magic,
cherry-red lipstick in the backseat.
It is fast cars, midnight downtown.

Writing is also quiet summer Sundays,
wispy white clouds and sea breezes.
Words form rainbows in the water.

Writing moves through your veins,
through your body-
sex, drugs, meditation-
whatever you want it to be,
it will be.
Writing will move you.

Hey gang!

Check me out on Thirteen Myna Birds today! My poem "I Heart California" has joined the latest formation, along with a photo of my fresh ink.

Thirteen Myna Birds is an online publication run by Juliet Cook, who also runs Blood Pudding Press. She describes TMB as "an online poetry publication seeking the evocative, the connotative, the creepy, the odd, the paranormal, and the dark." It's a flight formation of delicious poetry, so check it out!

No Harvest Ripening

A poem by Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Come quickly, winter, for the heart belies
The truth of these warm days. These August skies
Are all too fair to suit the times - so kind
That almost they persuade the treacherous mind
It still is summer and the world the same.
These gaudy colors on the hills in flame
Are out of keeping with the nun's attire
We wear within - of ashes, not of fire.

Season of ripening fruit and seeds, depart;
There is no harvest ripening in the heart.

Bring the frost that strikes the dahlias down
In one cruel night. The blackened buds, the brown
And wilted heads, the crippled stems, we crave -
All beauty withered, crumbling to the grave.
Wind, strip off the leaves, and harden, Ground,
Till in your frozen crust no break is found.

Then only, when man's inner world is one
With barren earth and branches bared to bone,
Then only can the heart begin to know
The seeds of hope asleep beneath the snow;
Then only can the chastened spirit tap
The hidden faith still pulsing in the sap.

Only with winter-patience can we bring
The deep-desired, long-awaited spring.

Sweet Saturday

Tonight I made "Outrageously Thick Spanish Hot Chocolate with Churros" from Sticky, Chewy, Messy, Gooey by Jill O'Connor. Here's the recipe for the hot chocolate if you're in the mood for something super rich and chocolaty. This recipe serves six. (I didn't make the churros).

Ingredients:
6 cups whole milk
2 tablespoons cornstarch
1/4 cup dutch-processed cocoa powder
3/4 cup sugar
pinch of salt
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
8-12 ounces semisweet chocolate, chopped (I used chocolate chips)

Pour 5 1/2 cups of the milk into a large, heavy-bottomed saucepan. In a small bowl or cup, stir together the cornstarch, cocoa powder, sugar, and salt. Add the remaining 1/2 cup of milk to form a smooth paste. Heat the milk over medium heat and just before it begins to boil, whisk in the cocoa mixture. Bring to a boil, stirring constantly, and cook for 1 minute, or until the mixture thickens slightly. Remove from the heat and stir in the vanilla and about 8 ounces of the chocolate. Stir until the chocolate is completely melted and combined. Taste the hot chocolate; if desired, stir in 4 more ounces of chocolate (or to taste) for an even richer flavor. Set aside and keep warm.

Today I visited the Book Eddy and came across Anne Morrow Lindbergh's The Unicorn & Other Poems. I've been reading her other book, Gift from the Sea, so it was pure serendipity and such a sweet moment to find this old book of poetry. Plus, there was a little note inside, written in 1973. I believe this note was written for me...

"From the woman who gave you 'Gifts from the Sea' - to my favorite unicorn - hope you enjoy it."

Magical...

Here is a poem, from the book, I absolutely adore:

"The Man and the Child"

It is the man in us who works;

Who earns his daily bread and anxious scans
The evening skies to know tomorrow's plans;
It is the man who hurries as he walks;
Finds courage in a crowd; shouts as he talks;
Who shuts his eyes and burrows through his task;
Who doubts his neighbor and who wears a mask;
Who moves in armor and who hides his tears.
It is the man in us who fears.

It is the child in us who plays;
Who sees no happiness beyond today's;
Who sings for joy; who wonders, and who weeps;
It is the child in us at night who sleeps.
It is the child who silent turns his face,
Open and maskless, naked of defense,
Simple with trust, distilled of all pretense,
To sudden beauty in another's face-

It is the child in us who loves.

If you're a fan of Francesca Lia Block you'll love this video of her talking about and reading from her new book, How to (Un)Cage a Girl.




*sigh*

Poefusion ~ Friday 5

Fourteen

Your find yourself
behind slightly open curtains
wearing wings made of wire
and blue-green nylon

The audience waits
The burning bulbs
drip hot color on your skin

If only this stage
could swallow you

If only the epitasis
wasn't swelling in your heart

But the conclusion of dramatics
comes before the story's told

They will all stop and stare
because all the world's a snare

You speak of midnight stars and music
Soft, pink cardigans and delicate brooches
Beauty as pure beauty
No scissors to rip the ribbon
But there's something underneath the rug
Something you've swept away
You've discarded this beauty
Swollen, apple-red eyes
Demons in the mirror
Broken plastic wings
And cigarettes
Where is your tragedy
It is the only beauty left
When the world is a wave
Above your heart

P.S. I started working on my novel today. I didn't get too far, of course, but I'm weeding through a lot of information. Organizing it in my head. People, places, times, dates. The important thing is I made a conscious effort to sit down and write something.

And so the journey begins...

The artist and the muse...

Muses are poison
when they become human.
And they will.
If you so much as touch them
they will.
If you so much as speak to them
they will.
They will always become Icarus
and you will be beneath them.

There are the girls
with sharp noses
and drugged-up,
smoky eyes.
They are fae
with literary tattoos
on their backs
and they wear lacy socks
with gauzy dresses.
They are talented.
Multi-talented and beautiful.
Ugly beautiful and strange
and they have older boyfriends
with long hair.
The boyfriends take
naked pictures of the fae.
Perfect jaw line.
Perfect bones.

And there are the boys.
The boys with wild wings,
hard hands,
lips quick to kiss
the parts of you
they want to tattoo.
Perfect boys in your mind.
Perfect, perfect,
walking right past you everyday,
smiling and giving you poetry.

Then you let your human self
saunter up to these girls,
these boys,
these vile muses,
snakes,
apples,
and you shrink down
beneath them.
You shrink because you think
they are gods, goddesses,
you are unworthy of such inspiration.
Give, give,
you will give them everything.

But how quickly
they turn to dust.
Muses to humans.
And you'll see.
I promise you'll see.
You'll see the Adam
and the Eve
and the human they're made of.
But it will be too late.

Get to work...

Everyday I get a lovely and inspring poem sent to my inbox via Poetry Chaikhana. These lines, from today's poem "Screening its face amongst lotus stalks," particularly spoke to me:

Let no obstacle stand in your way;
get to work --
you are young and fresh.
Break this fake sleep and snap out of your dreams

I am always in a dream state, and this state usually consists of grandeur dreams of fame and fortune. Yes, my first novella will most certainly be the talk of the town, BUT...it must be written first :)

Sixteen

For readwritepoem

He doesn’t care
about your blue, silk dress
embellished with flowers
or all the hours you spent
on your makeup.
He doesn’t care
about your heart
of bone china –
it is soft sand
between his fingers.

You love baseball now
and classic rock.
You love his shaggy hair.
Life is beautiful.

He loves too.
He loves the pink
between your thighs.

I wish I could
save you from him.

Collage for Hilda

Rose, harsh rose

marred and with stint of petals,

meagre flower, thin,

sparse of leaf,

more precious

than a wet rose

single on a stem --

you are caught in the drift.

Stunted, with small leaf,

you are flung on the sand,

you are lifted

in the crisp sand

that drives in the wind.

Can the spice-rose

drip such acrid fragrance

hardened in a leaf?

~Sea Rose by Hilda Doolittle

It seems I made this ATC subconsciously with Sea Rose embedded in the deep of my mind. I didn't realize, until just now, how well it corresponds with the poem. Don't you love when that happens?

A bit-o-poetry

The room is full of angels
drinking, laughing,
smearing their eyeliner
down their cheeks.

Their broken wings have
them slumped on the floor.
Summer heat wisps through
the cotton drapes.

“Open the window!”
Someone shouts.
“It’s already open,”
an angel sings.

She walks toward it
and stretches her hand
to the moon.
“Why can’t I fly?”

Inspired by a photo

From Ezra

I love these lines from "The Arches" by Ezra Pound...

Yea alway had I longed to hold real dreams
Not laboured things we make beneath the sun
But such as come unsummoned in our sleep...