Louise said Heaven

I don’t think I’ll see any lovers this morning

rising from dewy meadows,

twined like bind weeds

and blooming pink hued and golden

with such clinging desire.

This morning only grey plumed pigeons

paired on the power plant lines

below sleeping peregrines.

You went through London’s swamp

clutching that last thing,

the mantlepiece clock

and its key for winding. 

What happened to perpetual motion?  

Timepieces, simple mechanics,

just hands sweeping around a dial,

the earth around the sun,

the shifting moon factored in. 

No confusion,

clouds come up,

but the mountain stands still,

the erosion, the plates underneath,

too slow to register any significant error. 

Yet always the friction.

Louise said heaven.

Some pale plateau glowing

in her fervent imagination,

but also tangible

like a thatch of a chestnut’s mane

that you can’t help but thread your fingers through

and hold close, inhaling the musk and fire. 

Who named you and made you other. 

And what energy fuels this need to grasp

and stake some claim, graze into the next pasture.

The senses sway and pull us under the blue green caress in waves.

We glean and gather and pack our hearts with rough bales,

Only to pull out later

Sad amber catches of eyelashes and kisses,

faint pockets of breathless gasps

on the edges of desks, perhaps,

where beauty falls

in each swerving atom

and should they collide . . . .

Or the sea . . .

"She trusts me," I overhear you say
on one of the many calls you walk outside to take,
and some smooth stone slips over my heart.


Your eyes, which held such sweetness, now look caged.
I miss the graceful swing of the string between us:
the simple kiss, quiet first, then asking for more.


"I only want you to be happy," felt sincere,
so easy, but now, I don't know.
Your tongue on mine is thick
and drunk from crying
as I reach my hand to yours.


We tryst, we sweat and moan, the sea itself;
drowning all thoughts in this pitching cauldron.


In the morning, through the blinds,
a shy lavender light,
laced with butterscotch
and dusty mullien
illuminates
a sweet Sargasso
of weedy down
on your face,
swirling in a gyre
around your grave
and silent lips


once again.

Synchronicity, Spiritus Mundi, "The Shirt! The Shirt!", or, crap, I've really lost it and gone off the deep end.

Benedict Cumberbatch--production photo from "Third Star"

The cast from "Third Star" takes a break and has tea

I had a dream after watching the film "Third Star," an independent British film in which the main character, played by Benedict Cumberbatch, is dying of cancer and wants to take one last trip to the coast of Wales with his mates. The main impact of the film on me was the portrayal of this group of young men as caring and being able to be emotionally open and vulnerable; qualities I want to believe men have, or are capable of, but which I haven't experienced firsthand from guys in any satisfactory way.
In my dream I was suddenly with someone and I felt this great relief--that I could stop fighting and struggling so hard and just relax and know that this person, this guy, cared about me, almost implicitly, instinctively, as though we had always known each other and there was no fear or anxiety.  I don't know who he was, I couldn't see him clearly, but I did notice his shirt.  He was wearing this white/off-white thin cotton shirt with a delicate, almost floral reddish/pink pattern on it.  In the dream, in my letting go, I just wanted to put my head on his shoulder.  I wanted him to support me, hold me.  I had all this sorrow and struggle in me and I wanted to let it go.  As I moved in closer to lean on him, I felt this terrific heat rising up from his torso from beneath his shirt.  I suddenly felt that I had misjudged him, that I had made him into this strong impermeable rock that would hold me; maybe not misjudged, but not known completely because I hadn't previously been aware of his sorrows, his struggles, his vulnerability, his human frailty.  How much was he like me?  I could feel his heart beating, but it was jagged, as if he was only kept alive by some fragile and powerful grace, both mystic and wild.

This dream felt very real and dear to me.  I took it as a message that I can and will find the connection I crave, that I will find someone safe, a soul mate.

I wanted very much to write about this in a poem, but I kept getting hung up on the shirt.  I did some Google searches but I couldn't find what I wanted.  I wanted a poetic fabric, but batiste, though favored by Tolstoy, seemed too obscure, too distracting.  I just couldn't come up with a terse, poetic description.  This was what I wrote:

Last night I was thinking:

You, oh, you.

Like a comfort, as though your shoulder

was a pillow for my sorrows.

But when I rested my head there,

the warmth of your torso blazed up like a furnace

and I felt the sudden fragility of your pulse

through the thin print of your shirt,

the unease of the machinery,

tremulous

and shuddering.

Ah, well, anyway, "the thin print of your shirt" was the best I could do.  So, blah.  But I was pretty pleased with the rest of the poem (Iridium Nib), and so it goes.

Anyway, a couple of days ago I was trolling around the internet.  After "Third Star" I watched another small, independent film that Benedict did--"Wreckers"--which kind of screwed with my head because it's one of those films where nothing is quite as it seems.  I found a short, but insightful forum on the plot of the film on the wonderfully named "The Baker Street Supper Club" website.  I also found a "Wreckers" page on Facebook.  So, yeah, these small budget films want to promo themselves, so they have FB pages with lots of fun pictures and behind the scenes stuff.  I had a great time looking at all the passionate, creative types who are never seen on camera, but do lots of work planning out shots, and painting scenes and dressing sets and the actors.  The art people seemed like people one would like to hang out with.  They had lovely lunches with piles of fruits and veggies and baguettes on the set. 

The Art Crew on "Wreckers" have Lunch.  Love that wallpaper!

The Dog, Lucy, and the Production Designer, Beck Rainford, on "Wreckers."  I just couldn't skip this photo--too cute!

Crew Member of "Wreckers" resting on location in The Fens

I felt some connection with these people.   In my job as a Pastry Chef at a convention center, I am behind the scenes, too, doing my creative work and remaining anonymous and invisible.  My team and I work like hell on a big project and then it's over.  OK, so on to the next show.  That's how it goes.  Not many laurels to rest upon.

So, back to scrolling around the web.  I wanted to find similar "behind the scenes" stuff for "Sherlock."  Oh, my.  This show has an incredible following and a host of websites devoted to almost any aspect you can imagine.  Like that wallpaper in 221B?  Well, you can buy it, or the teapot, or the perfume Irene Adler wore.  Gah.  Too much stuff.  I can see, though, that I am hardly alone in my obsession.  That makes me feel somewhat better, or at least not as crazy.  Anyway, just rummaging through Sherlock pictures and sites and I found this--the shirt!  the shirt!--from some panel discussion somewhere.  God, I almost fell off my deluxe executive task chair.  This is the shirt from my dream.  Why is Benedict wearing it?  Why did I dream about it in detail?  What does this mean?  I have lost it.  I am supposed to be having fun with this obsession, right?  

The Shirt!  The Shirt!

Dorianne found a bolt of silk and I have a jasmine tea

The scent of her you remember the longest, I suppose.

Not consciously, but buried like a recital piece you once

worked over so stiffly, like a sore tooth, but now can’t even hum,

until you pass by an open window where notes start and then suddenly stop sharp,

or you hear someone say “air” with a small rise at the end,

as though they had meant to swallow it, but a gust had lofted it

like silken milkweed at dusk.

And her skin, yes, the warmth of it, the buttermilk sheen

that deepened to sweet citrine as the summer bloomed.

You walked up hills together.  In the bright sun,

in the open places, the snakes uncoiled on stones,

the wasps wavered over pink balm that stood

both so earnestly straight-stemmed and faintly wilted at the leaves.

And then her hand closed tightly around yours,

as she spied, with a small gasp of wonder,

an elk cow, softly feeding on the grass by the pines.

Her hand just as quickly released,

as the cow bolted towards the trees,

and in the stars that could not yet be seen,

a lovely queen let her head tilt back,

with her distant hair

so flowing, so free.

Ode to a Nightingale

Iridium Nib

I’m watching the Mulberry, waiting for the Oriole’s quick, graceful flash: 

Each season, the last to arrive, the first to leave.

The Grackles mob in, the Robins squawk at each other, their fledglings,

A pale Viceroy flutters by the daylilies, then a Monarch. 

I had a small, neat stack of your letters; standard white business envelopes,

tri-folded eight by elevens inside, filled with your harried scratch.

I can almost see your fingers lankly flicking that fast tattoo

of black twisted lace across each silken page.

A short stack like pancakes, creamy blintzes. 

I wonder what you had meant to say to me,

in those notes from the coast.

I wanted to ask if you had ever smelled oranges,

or almonds in bloom, or heard the ocean’s shush.

But those letters I had kept tight in a crush of blue rubber bands;

they frayed, they flew away.

Last night I was thinking:

You, oh, you.

Like a comfort, as though your shoulder was a pillow for my sorrows.

But when I rested my head there,

the warmth of your torso blazed up like a furnace

and I felt the sudden fragility of your pulse

through the thin print of your shirt,

the unease of the machinery,

tremulous

and shuddering.

There, there he is . . .

but no sweet slurring whistle here.

He quickly picks the darkest berries

then flies away to the high trees by the creek,

the Cottonwoods, the White Elms

where the woven nests sway,

only there does he un-ply his shiny bill

and sing.

Obsession: What if you just own it?

Sherlock in Añjali Mudrā

OK, I’m obsessed with Sherlock and I’m feeling some symptoms of withdrawal--moody, edgy, sad.

There are only 6 episodes (so far) and I’ve seen all of them twice and the pilot.

It all started when I was just wandering through TV channels, which I hardly ever do, but this show caught my eye.  I jumped in and out of the last half of the last episode of the first season in a re-run on PBS.

That night I dreamt about his hair, the luscious dark curls in my fingers, against my lips . . .

I awoke with a start and realized that I was remembering someone from 30 years prior who bore a striking resemblance to the actor playing Sherlock and someone with whom I had been in an off-and-on correspondence of late.  Oh!  Are kisses what I’m wanting, what I’m hoping for with 30-years-ago guy? 

Gah, so, yes.  And I get to watch myself doing it.  I had already told myself the reasons for contacting T. (30-years-ago-guy) was that he reminded me of my college years, those dreamy and unreal four years when I got to be immersed in the heady pursuit of literature and my confused approach to boys.  And a few years back, when I was feeling dissatisfied with my life, I Googled him and found that he was teaching English at an Ivy League college.  I read an excerpt of a book he’d written and heard his voice through it again, funny and erudite. 

I cried. 

He also had reviewed some poets I didn’t know and as I began to read them, that old feeling that I had set aside for so long came back, that excitement of deciphering the meaning of language, the flowing power of a wash of images in verse, the tones, the colors . . . .

At that time I was on the edge of joining MySpace and a circle of supportive writers.  Finding T. again helped me realize the direction that I wanted for my life, what I had been missing.

I contacted him.  We hadn’t been lovers, but I had fond memories of him.  We were friends.  He liked my poetry.  I loved hanging out with him and listening to him talk.  That may sound odd, but he was extremely smart and I liked to have him explain philosophy and literature in ways that were quite foreign to my brain.  I thanked him for indirectly encouraging me to write again after a decade or so hiatus.  He had fond memories of me as well, but that was the end of it.  I could see that at that time, I wanted him to help me, to be my editor, perhaps, or somehow help me get published.  I didn’t ask him directly, but I sent him some of my poems and then heard nothing back.  I let it go.

Then my boyfriend of 7 years broke up with me, my mother died, my dogs died.  I tried to make a relationship happen with an alcoholic with whom I initially thought I could just be a friend.  I think I may finally be over that notion, but I’ve started up this little thing with someone from 30 years ago.  In December, I found some art he had done and sent me on a postcard from 1983.  I scanned it and sent it to him.  I had to wonder about my intentions and I decided that he would either decide that I was a creepy stalker, or be thrilled.  He was thrilled. At that time I was just starting to teach myself to draw and very enthusiastic about it.  He wrote back and told me that he realized that abandoning his Art was a mistake and he wanted to get back to it.  I said yesyesyesyes!  And then nothing for another 4 months. 

In April, T. sent me a short email that he was in his garden and thinking about me.  What?  I let three weeks pass before I responded.  I wasn’t doing so hot at the time.  My back was out and I was having an unhappy spring.  I sent him a longer message and some drawings.  And that flirtatious energy came up. Even though I knew I had a good chance of being very foolish, it still felt good.  T. had been kind to me in the distant past.  There was no enmity between us; he had rescued me from a verbally abusive relationship when I asked him.  Did I wish to be rescued again?  

And then Sherlock showed up: tall, thin, pale, dark curls, incredibly smart.  I got psychologically confused.  I knew that I was making up a fake romance with T., almost as I had with the online alcoholic, with even less;  I was just working off a couple of emails this time.  What are you doing!?  But Sherlock as a doppelganger to T. was a lovely distraction.  I could come home from a crap day at work and know that he’d be there in a blue dressing gown, or Saville Row suit, petulant and dark and dashing, challenging me to think, observe, figure it out. I shifted my possible obsession with T. to a TV show.  But now it’s over, well at least until new episodes come out next year. And, by owning it, my obsessive nature, that need to make up romance, I just get to say:  Yes!

A rather blue still from "Third Star"