Somehow, somewhere lies my agitated notion of you:
all that I could dream of!
My embellished experiences and some of *your recall*.
But mostly my avowed experience.
It, The Sunken Anchor un-phased,
is latched, parasitic to my dentate gyrus, thought and impulse.
It throbs with pain and spasms in frustration,
unable to calm itself down. Until sleep...
The road towards you sizzles -- but how do I know?
The image somehow bends. Dazzles.
As I roar through the turns
with little hesitation,
the bright aura spot that is you, guides me
as I leave the preferred road
and squint to see you in the shady forest
which now overrides my view; in I venture!
It's not too long before I find you:
The material that you accept you are made of, glistens, mesmerises;
it weighs on you where you stand
amongst the stumps of the clearing.
You're up to your ankles in half decayed logs and their saplings;
close-up they bear -- somehow -- familiar, chiseled-in, expressionless faces.
The culpable, self-determining axe shimmers, extended in your silvery hand.
I lean in but you squeal for the necessary oil.
Somehow I know, that it's attainable by Uncertain Promise,
only in the deep of the inhospitable, it is said to be found,
the uniform darkness of the remaining woods.
...And with a startle, I wake...
Mixed and giddy feelings
indicate that I'm slow to come to terms with the new day.
And that despite the lingerings,
I've stopped dreaming of My Sheer Lover.
We’re in bed bum-to-bum in a kind-of held kiss with each other
during the intermittent nights of popular labile affect.
We do face opposing, but this morning my mind is lain with her anguish
and it independently embellishes unrequited hope.
This happens even as one hand grasps and invites me,
and quickly, other relents, distances and is untrusting;
then, with a sweeping, sudden un-clutch,
it discourages.
I insight on some of these occasions -- I don't behold often now,
be surprised that somehow we regroup.
When does she love? Me. Herself?
But apparently the so-called Disgusting "L" Word buried in me
continues to renew, for her.
Seemingly, I don't control: It reveals itself between her cheeky pout,
and my liberating naïveté; and,
In the infinite slip of the roof.
To My Sheer Lover,
How do I begin to experience your experience.
Your agony?
Torment? Anguish?
Disappointment in/of me?
To understand my persecutions and avoid
the swipe of The Axeman.
Perceived betrayal continues to cross.
The exception to the Disenchantment Rule is that I do, love you.
But you tear through me disgracefully.
You formidable Axeman.
Relinquish more! Never.
There’s no better explanation of desire than me for you;
but consequently, enmity within shouts: "I think about trying to use my neck!
To lick the honey off the knife."
SNAP! Silence breaks. And I realise the truth.
I’m Your Love Always,
Fil.
Comments
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Greetings, exofil.
First off, I'll say this is one of the most extravangantly imaged love poems I've ever seen, with its emotionally charged, heightened dictions and phrases, all - in my opinion - perfectly placed. The whole thing could have gotten out of hand by a lesser poet, but you've kept the inner-narrative going with very fine discipline. Yet it's a nearly ferocious yearning for a loved one that breathes through the amazing technique. At least, that's how it comes off to me, and I enjoyed it all immensely.
Within it, I hear not only the seductiveness of a loved one, but also the erotic pull of that longed-for one. Yet the poem doesn't romanticize love as always a beautiful thing; love can be monstrously dangerous, an assassin of the lover: that recurring "axe" is a sharp image. And that's what I think the poem is pondering underneath its agitated phrases: is this love going to be worth the possible destruction of the lover?
But the poet answers that question in the final two lines: yes, after all.
Amazingly free-floating imagination here, exo, but kept in check by knowing what you're doing with a poem of such excited sensuality: here is an arborist who's nearly an arsonist, trying to decide whether to burn in himself or to burn off the reluctant lover. And that seventh stanza, among many others, is brilliant.
Later...
Lad -
You are a very ambiguous writer,
almost androgynous, I must say. I am confused as Hell as to your gender and just about everything else. Except for one thing: this bleeds love with an beautiful intensity that mesmerizes, even if I am confused as all hell.
Oh, my hell...you've got the Wizard of Oz, philosophy, psychology and what seems a doppleganger of love described as another woman in your work. Is this an actual person? (the one bum to bum doing the clutching, unclutching) or simply a metaphorical representation of your inconstancy in love and unwillingness to admit and embrace it?
Here's the jist I get in a nutshell: you're in love from the shadows and wondering whether to overcome your trepidation. My advice? Do it. Love is a beautiful thing and should never languish in uncertainty. Get your stuff together and go out and do what your heart tells you to.
Now, you mention "infinite slip". Are you a scientist? Your metaphors are very intriguing and incredibly action-packed. I have actually read this several times trying to pierce it. Because there is something truly behind it worth catching, in my opinion. I've read lots of worthless wordy gobbledy-gook before, but this has meaning, I can just feel it. And I would truly like to understand, should you be so kind as to assist me. I really enjoy your writing as it has a very unique beauty that begs comprehension to dawn. Please help me out, here. Sometimes I look so hard for the hidden that I miss the obvious, which I'm sure is here somewhere. Please paint the picture for me. Color by numbers will be just fine, if you please.
al
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