Wednesday, Oct. 2012

I love poetry.  Always have.  Whether I’m feeling adrift, buoyant, pleased with life or looking for deeper meaning, I’ve always turned to poetry.  As a little girl, I began writing poetry early on, venting the frustrations, joys and accomplishments of my soul onto pages I meant none to read…though some did.  And what they read, I was told was good—very good.  Though my stylization didn’t follow traditional stringent poetic guidelines, it did have a rhythm and tempo all its own.  One that worked, even though it seemed to labor against itself at times.

A while back, I picked up book of poems from a writer friend of mine who no longer had use for it.  The book is called The Venus Hottentot.  Elizabeth Alexander writes all poems contained within.  Her style of poetry spoke to me.  Reminded me of my own…in a fashion.  Though I suppose no two poets ever mirror one another’s styles.

As I finished the final touches of unpacking yesterday, I came across that book, placing it on a shelf in my office where it would be close at hand, many of the poems contained within having struck a chord in me.  Here is one that spoke to me today.

Zodiac

You kissed me once and now I wait for more.

We’re standing underneath a swollen tree.

A bridge troll waits to snatch me if I cross.

Your bicycle handles are rusted blue.

 My mouth has lost its flavor from this kiss.

I taste of warm apple.  My lips are fat.

If these blossoms fall they’ll mark our faces:

Gold shards of pollen or flower-shaped dents.

Is it bird wings that bat between my legs?

Is there a myth for trolls?  Bulfinch says no.

My mother has a friend who reads the stars.

I am fourteen.  “My dear, you look in love.”

Your fingers stained dull orange from the bike.

Svetlana eyes and hands, no crystal ball.

White ripe blossoms on a trembling tree.

Again, I think.  I want you to kiss me.