Poetry by Pat Stewart
|
Poetry by Pat Stewart |
|
|
|
ISBN 0773435549 |
|
ECLIPSE
The hours were few and full were gold a pale moon Your speech to me correct and circumspect a pleasant moon There were chimes nearby the maybe moon enumerated slid gold away Memory then a long dark curve whose only brightness the chill Of a thinning crescent the past the present chimes One hour gold and full the hot hot sun You |
DRAWING CIRCLES
I'd carve you great round silences in which to grow, or dream, Or wind blue skeins of yarn, or sky, great full rounds where Grating sounds were banned, the clack of insistent time finally shuttered, banned; Great stretches of quiet without loneliness, soft, muffled quiet, Friendly quiet, encompassing darks, hemispheres, your own walled city! Such circles would I draw for you complete with imperfections that allowed me in. |
|
TECTONIC
Floating island, a sweet whipped cream, sensual custard, a raspberry tongue left to wander the day with aftertaste. Cumulus clouds, my billowing dreamships racing away, and those dust motes off into infinity, and alone, always alone. Ships and islands and clouds and geese. November now, and Canada geese vee overhead, my sky-arrows pointing South. Remember tectonic plates. Yes, and the violence of coming together, of slamming edge to edge and nothing the same, after. Not the blue sky or the taste of tomorrow. Not the innocent heart or the shipless eyes or the body that now knows earthquakes, cannot react except seismologically. Aftershocks, each a little less until nothing. The clear blue sky and an island awaiting more quakes. |
SINGLE BOTTLE
7:15 champagne, a year-old gift. at 7:30 a chill idea in glass it has a sound, a color, A taste like lost kisses, year-old promises. When you drink champagne, alone, You drink it all. You love what can't be loved. Music is a pale pink peach, a color So clear you can hear your heart crack in your throat. 9:00 poetry - the god of Little grapes dancing in a small tight bubble in the pit. Cherished. Definitely cherished. Champagne's for the cherished. |
|
from Savage Gift ISBN 1413714749 |
|
|
FROM HERE TO THERE
Blackbird in its dark ballet, the sandhill crane, the gosling train; stubble reeds the water's edge I read morosely in a pouring rain defecting like a dissident you're just another poet, walking. Blackbird screams the cornfield rain the sandhill steps from here to there its delicate matchstick choreography I revert to hatchling chick to baby states to helpless fluff you make waves by walking. I puddle through, now, following, now sleep fitfully on the wing swallowing freedom far from singing I take my shaky stumbling steps stand strong, upright, alone writing blackbird skies of poetry. |
LOVE SONG
Girl in the first row. We can't see her. He sings to her from the stage. He melts into her, can't take his eyes off her. His fingers caress along the mike-cord; his eyes smolder more words than are in the song; his lips kiss her with the sound off. He rains it all down past the footlights, the key lights, the strobe, through the camera, the linkup, the network, the tube; to the girl eating it up in front of her TV wrapped in a blanket at three in the cold, the one with the milk and the Oreos and all that love.
|
|
SUMMER BETRAYAL
A deserted shell Presses its ear to the beach Your footsteps don't come.
Perhaps what is lost On the last day of summer Cannot be written. The wind, untying streamers, Writes, the party is over.
One flower is left To decorate the wrong bride. Her mother still cries. |
OF INTRINSIC VALUE
I would not give you gifts of homespun brown. Let others see to that, who truck in practicalities and have no souls.
No, I would give you something you could hold in your hand, warm and weighty, perhaps examine with a magnifying glass, close your fist upon and feel mighty -
Something of worth and rarity enough to make you lock some vault upon it never knowing which of its facets will one day cause you to cry out my name in your sleep. |
|
links to Key Light Pi Days of Dante Savage Gift |
Tweet
