this has been revised so many times I almost can not recognize what it was in the beginning...after reading at Sine Qua Non gallery I was told that the ending should be revised. I did that, so let me know what you think.
My heart flutters like a fish on dry pavement,
I struggle to walk; my knees are a condemned building
Shaking: I’m so weak.
As he passes I can not speak.
And I dare not!
My thoughts are a jumbled puzzled board.
Once again, I flap around gasping for air.
Who cares about breathing?
I’d hold my breath forever if it meant he’d never leave.
Life being sucked from me like a vampire sucks blood,
Lungs pinned down by the foot of an elephant, I turn blue.
In a small dark corner, heaving.
He nurtured me, fed me, and became my reason for writing.
So for him I’d stop breathing.
I haven’t fallen in love.
I’ve built my life around it.
More than a room with four walls, I have eight.
Like a baby in a fluffy pink blanket, in her mother’s arms, surrounded,
I thank heavens I’ve found him.
Snuggled to his chest, I listen to the thump of his heart.
We are so close; I can share his breath.
But I do not care about breathing.
I gave it up for him
Bounded, lips sky blue; cold and frigid
Chest caving,
Curved like the inner surface of a bowl.
I do not want him to set me free.
I love dangling from the tip of his hook.
I can see breath escape my lips like smoke from a sizzling grill.
And my eyes bulge out like I’m sky diving for the first time.
He completes me, he is my thrill.
Where ever he is, my heart shall lie.
Even if it means I have to die.
So as my breath runs away like an abused child,
I collapse in my love for him.
©copyright Tia L. Clarke 2007
3 comments:
Would you believe I lost all I'd said in response to this poem. I suppose chatting and having to strike Enter, sent comments here into cyberspace.
I did conclude that my remarks were too verbose. I'll get back at it.
Here and now! My complaint stands still.
Your poem invites the reader with you, to make an idol of Eros or romantic love.
We know already though that that is a dead-end street. Moses will soon be returning, as mad as hell with the 10 commandments.
Your wonderful metaphors are therefore wasted on what is not worthy of such glorification.
As beautiful as it is, with its wonderful invention of original metaphors, it lacks wisdom, ultimately.
Philosophically and theologically, it needs to aim higher.
T.L.C. My favorite singer, songwriter, Joni Mitchell, has a song on her "Blue" album with these lines: "You love me so naughty you make me weak in the knees".
Do you know this painter, poet, musician? Do you know this song?
Near the beginning of "You Take My Breath Away" you seem to allude to it.
"He nurtured me, fed me, and became my reason for writing."
This line is surprising, amazing. You set the reader up to expect one thing [living] and instead, a shift, he gets something brand new [writing]. This is art, talent, poetry.
When you read it aloud in the Gallery, I smiled at the success, at the cleverness of this line.
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