In my opinion, one of the most incredibly seductive poems she ever wrote... reminds me of "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time," in a way... a sexosensual carpe noctum, no?
*God do I hate sleeping alone.
Blossom
In April
the ponds open
like black blossoms,
the moon
swims in every one;
there’s fire
everywhere: frogs shouting
their desire,
their satisfaction. What
we know: that time
chops at us all like an iron
hoe, that death
is a state of paralysis. What
we long for: joy
before death, nights
in the swale - everything else
can wait but not
this thrust
from the root
of the body. What
we know: we are more
than blood - we are more
than our hunger and yet
we belong
to the moon and when the ponds
open, when the burning
begins the most
thoughtful among us dreams
of hurrying down
into the black petals
into the fire,
into the night where time lies shattered
into the body of another.
2 comments:
I had to look up swale
Swale
–noun Chiefly Northeastern U.S.
1. a low place in a tract of land, usually moister and often having ranker vegetation than the adjacent higher land.
2. a valleylike intersection of two slopes in a piece of land.
Either way the use of the word adds good flavor:)(I am assuming this valley or moister ranker vegetation is refering to private parts although def. one sounds like it needs a little shave) I am going to go look for a swale to spend the night in too
oh my god so did I.
It's also a specific bit of water in Kent, England.
... good luck on the swale hunt, incidentally. (swale safari? is it swale season?)
Post a Comment