Tuesday, October 28, 2008

autumnal equinox


there is a line that runs
between the expanse of cheekbone
and mouth, a small, perfect crease
where the skin kisses itself.
all night i watched it.

i wanted to disturb it with my mouth
and tell you something, then, some
wordless thing that had more to do with breath
and mild wishes thrown silent
against the tongue, so soft and
full of mute promise.

that night i had no words,
embarrassed by the hard sounds
which would stumble in the dark. but your eyes
were brilliant, they were light
where there is no light, and all the while
the candles flamed and marked
the summer's last night.

i knew, seeing white disc toss shadows
in long sulphurous waves
against your face,
this was not life as i knew it;
it was some magic we'd conjured,
some trick of the night, arranging
slices of moon as you hovered
above me, shining.

but wait,
now i will tell you something,
my arms across your long back, my heart
racing toward another morning.
i will tell you a secret: this
is not real, none of it is real,
as dreams and sage drenched shadows
are not real,
and this is all there is.



suzanne finnamore

22 comments:

Jim said...

My lord woman! Mediocre? Not in the slightest.
"...then,some
wordless thing that had more to do with breath
and mild wishes thrown silent
against the tongue, so soft
full of mute promise." There is a calmness here that soothes me. Yet there is a hint of things to come in the "mute promis."

FINNABLOG said...

jesus, i know. thank you, i mean. who wrote this? huh.

FINNABLOG said...

you know, you start out the day with coffee and half & half, you can take all day with just that. it's SHOCKING. maybe poetry is that kind of indulgence.

Linda said...

I have known passion like this. It is not in my memory as ordinary time. It is more forbidden or at least secret.

Jim said...

To me, poetry is like fine dark chocolate. You have to let it melt slowly to fully appreciate the subtleties, texture and depth.

Jim said...

And, yeah, I guess I'm comparing your poetry to a fine, dark chocolate.

FINNABLOG said...

oh, jim. you're a spigot of hope and joy. thank you. dark chocolate is the highest compliment i will ever deserve or attain, it's a huge lift to hear that/i am not attached to these poems, i foundthem huddled in my storeroom, a bit scraggly andhalf starved. i brought them here. thank you.

FINNABLOG said...

"I have known passion like this. It is not in my memory as ordinary time. It is more forbidden or at least secret"

i'm honored. thank you. i hope you feel free to release those secrets into the air, even if just to yourself, on a scrap of paper that you fold up and throw to the gods

FINNABLOG said...

jim. caryl. jodi. brandon. almostclouds, particlesofspirit, miss cake, jerry. george. georgre's SON. carrie. sher. dorian. tim. the beloved wife battling cancer, johnM, john, scott!, ghettogirl. '

this litany of names and people whose hearts i get to have a little piece of, and they in turn carry a piece of mine, for me. it's communion, a privilege....this list of names is like a poem, to me now. i know Haven feels the same. i know i forgot someone. so, especially to you, the one whose name escapes me, playfully xo sf

FINNABLOG said...

the big sister hitman saint, melinda! delonda "dee", Kat, the nine year old sassy boy who pirates his way onto the blog, his parents, the man at the Regulator wholurks, everyone who lurks,

and especially the list of gratitude for you people begins with my brother, ken, who set all this up for me, my soul brother ken woodard. he's a wonder designer/artist/director/man, made my website too. woodardkd@aol.com

Jerri said...

Lovely, lovely.

"this
is not real, none of it is real,
as dreams and sage drenched shadows
are not real,
and this is all there is."

I have lived this poem. Lived this love that is not real and yet is all there is. It often leads to a bad end, but oh, while you rest in that "mute promise." Oh, then....

FINNABLOG said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
FINNABLOG said...

JERRI yes! exactly my feeling. it's about the splendid and raw exactitude of a truly high-plane mating experience as it unfolds in the present time, like a velvety peacock of love and trust and passion. it's nature's force at work through love. i i think that within rare unions of two people with a fierce connection, a strong current of something of brain and body and chemistry that just kind of explodes and takes over, this is just a fantastic event, and so private, the most intimate of all imagining, right there and you have it and it's glorious and very rare. in the perfect world, it should always accompany a lifetime spent together. it doesn't, always. there's pain in this "all there is", but more just the acknowledgment of human frailty.

FINNABLOG said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Jerri said...

"acknowledgment of human frailty" is such a generous, apt explanation for it. I have so often wondered and fretted over the why, and you captured it with four words.

Laurie Ellen said...

You are amazing. Simply put with a too-overused word; you amaze me. Your brain is fascinating.

You have cleared my thoughts, you have made me hope for a brighter day, you have made me laugh until my guts ache, you have gathered a bunch of English words in such a way as to continually fascinate and enthrall me. Your verses, now, delight.

I will never get to meet you, I'm sure, but I consider you a friend. You're amazing.

FINNABLOG said...

laurie ellen: you have met me, and you are a friend. xo sf

Laurie Ellen said...

That is very cool of you.

Sher said...

suzanne -

from the title to every word - amazing. perfect ending!

sher

FINNABLOG said...

it's a true ending. i do aim for truth.

and i had no idea it was coming. some poems are like that. they emerge, flawed but whole. others are struggled over, the midwife cursing.

yes, it's very good to recall this level of pure passion - which for a woman must come from an emotional connection as well as just the surface physical nitrous -- but it is bittersweet, this poem.

i can count on one hand the amount of times i've felt this level of union, and with whom and when and all the details are clear to me now as that night. i love men, which is why until i find the right one, i do collect them. but among the beauty of them all, these few, the real writers of this poem? their names are on my skin, an invisible tattoo.

"in a dream, one is never 80" anne sexton

Sock Monkey said...

"their names are on my skin, an invisible tattoo."

Even in your comment... poetry. You are an amazing woman.

FINNABLOG said...

thank you, mister shue. i don't feel amazing. huh.