I WAS THE POET

You brought your body to the table.

I brought romance and poetry.

You didn’t want to, or maybe you were not able

To utter a single line of poetry.

You never made up anything resembling poetry.

You had newsy opinions and that was it.

I made up stories for you. I convinced you for awhile

That you were a poet without poems, that you were a poet in ways that really counted,

Because you loved nature, but I could tell, just by your smile,

You didn’t believe in anything that I was saying, even when I said

That saying wasn’t anything.  You had this splendid aspect about you that cannot be explained.

You got very upset, once, when I held an umbrella over you when it rained.

I love to think, but you hated to “analyze” anything, and that gave me fits.

I was the poet. But I could tell: You thought all I thought about was your tits.

 

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4 Comments

  1. Andrew said,

    December 12, 2015 at 1:31 pm

    I like this one for its gloriously mammiferous punch line.

    Your last few poems contain some lines of jilted regret –
    what happened?
    Did that foxy Indian girl not show up for your last date or something?

  2. thomasbrady said,

    December 12, 2015 at 2:06 pm

    Andrew,

    The poem has interest for me because it shows the poet arguing but losing—in the poetry, so there’s a kind of delicious irony there. It’s a very common trope: the one who cares more is the ‘loser’ in any relationship: it’s kind of about that, too.

    I won’t deny there is some auto-biography in poems I write. But no, this poem has nothing to do with the Indian girl. She’s a dear friend and she deserves all of Scarriet’s love and respect.

  3. maryangeladouglas said,

    December 12, 2015 at 3:20 pm

    I DO NOT TAKE IT TO HEART

    [to the Indian poet Chumki Sharma for her beautiful poem “Running Away With The Garden”]

    just for this space of, perhaps, a cloud’s, hair’s breadth,
    filament not meant to be on fire or at the music’s
    rest in the score

    before the tumultuous passage; it’s
    then sad angels retreat and draw their colours in
    and the earth grows blank by God’s decree

    as if under snows

    and the poets are even more understated than
    they were before, so dormant is everything.
    there in that space a small bird sings or several

    in the cold and I am marveling again alone
    and glad to be at the song before the sparrow freezes
    and I do not care that soon the burden will be

    impossible to bear and that looks are stony whenever
    I start to sing because the angels lift up
    on their broad wings

    such infinite colours and the pearl of the sky is mine
    though you would not think that
    to look at her so

    the old crones say and the new ones too
    but I am the fairy tale (aren’t you?) and I do not
    take it to heart.

    mary angela douglas 12 december 2015

  4. maryangeladouglas said,

    December 13, 2015 at 2:27 pm

    RUNNING AWAY WITH THE GARDEN

    [BY CHUMKI SHARMA]

    Deafening silence,
    a single leaf drifts down,
    the lone colour of fall
    midst the green canopy.
    I invite her to come with me,
    tell her she needs to escape.
    Fragile, lush Bouganvillea
    cascades down
    the walls of the
    garden of this heart,
    Peonies bleed petals,
    Tulip bulbs hide in dirt.
    a coiled glistening snakeskin
    lies unnoticed in an empty pot.
    I memorize every flower, every leaf,
    hold this garden safe inside me.
    Detangle the deep roots
    of the rosebush I planted as a bride,
    lift the smooth stones carried from the
    picnic spot by the river,
    before love became a stranger.
    Sweat kisses my neck, my breasts, my silence.
    I pull the plants from the earth,
    one by one.
    The Sage. The Daphne. The Bleeding Heart.
    Sometimes the safest gardens
    are the ones we tend in our dreams.
    I know these ferns have heard me cry.


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