She’s obsessed with him
as we watch
her favorite man in literary history
it’s a very well made production by the way --
It excites her that his character is Aspergerish
has this fast way of talking, just as she does
and isn’t it so funny that no one can keep up
with him, or her, no one. Not one.
But I’m Watson, I can see that as I watch
her face, her amused bemusement, to her
I’m the commoner slow speaking
made-with-all-the-ordinary hinges and bolts
mortal, but she –
she’s able to memorize dates, hairs
on a pant leg or the Fibonacci series, prime number
calculations in her spare time
all the shadows, only taking what she truly wants
from the pantry or whichever cases challenge her
turn up the volume! I’m getting
old and I’m trying to lip read
Watson’s hot, I like Watson’s
sweet nature, but she
My poems are in THRUSH Poetry Journal, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Requiem Magazine, The Bark, Utmost Christian Online, The Weekenders Magazine, Cyclamens and Swords, The Camel Saloon, Big River Poetry Review, The Artistic Muse, Poetic Pinup Revue, The Legendary Poetry Magazine, The Rusty Nail, Pyrta Journal, The Eunoia Review, Autumn Equinox issue of Mused, Broad!, Blue Lake Review, Defenestration, The Montucky Review, and Emerge Literary Journal.
A quivering in the dead brush, ghosting of a velvet flute
holds me close
scales up and down flickering wings through vanishing time.
Upstairs, a rock-a-bye atmosphere tinged with birdsong
my father in his soft shirt smelling of leaves and smoke
his song of wilderness flowing unfinished.
Mother is downstairs near a ruffling of curtains
rounding her shoulders at the sink, reddening knuckles
in her perishable world.
She worries as she hums, vigilant
over quotidian life and lump-free gravy
as my memory blurs into abstractions, a cigarette's final spark.
Here I lay
doubled up in the pitched tent of now, memories unfurling
captive to a glassy panache of my own Carmina Buranic notes
smashed flutes surrounding dammed up 'O Fortunas'
everything to experience in this precious life
driven into words of carnality
notes of love singing with such intensity
that there's no stopping the glass shattering.
Strings sprung, eyes closed, you were found
in an attic, collapsing into clutter.
How you had wingbeats for homing me
for fleeing winter's bitter whip
for warmth of fingertip's vital touch
I don't know, but like tousled hare
under towering strains of stars, we fell in love.
I know there were others before me
their full-bodied songs buried, frosted over.
They are a reminder that we have little time to warm
living out devoted days strewn with notes
crevasses reprimanding fingers to leave spaces
for silence where we both become invisible
for the marrow of each other's bones
you in brown, my soft footed hare and I
sky winged year after year since that brief night
soundpost to the brimming of stars.
In spring’s quiescence she waits
Misplaced and dreaming
Until the whisper loves her
Chopin’s Etude in E
Gathers her as other girls might blossoms.
In the fresh green scent of summer
Her raucous passion mingles with a rustling of trees
As Liszt’s Consolations run through
The dark tang of turbulence and notes disconsolate
Gather her as flowers might other girls.
In autumn’s receding light
Stripped to a kind of essence
The girl wanders timeworn and bloodied
A Brahms Intermezzo in B flat
Gathers her like fallen leaves.
Even in the exile of winter’s Golgotha there are notes
Where your song-making stars are visible
And she’s yours
A wayfarer who’s always grabbing her hat
Tripping along behind
Trying to keep up
The desperate lover, a child wanting to follow you.
More Poetry at Author's Den
It's Spring and she has planted fantasia
variegated tangs of peppermint
strawberry sage parsley essentials
blooming midst crisp jade, wafts of lilac
lavender chive with belvedere of mauve --
sweet rambling gardens
nourished by richness on primeval beds of ash
elucidated by dangling stars in night air
child's play of dreams buoyant in the sky
blissfully unconcerned that autumn even exists --
and yet a wintering breeze lurks
as she kneels in irreverent dirt
refusing to acknowledge its enervating voice
that small muddy gnome in her own vernal cafe
or an anonymous bespectacled star looking down
suspended between time zones
watching antiquity's produce
and the future's looming autumnal beauty
which may compensate for spring's murder
the flash and boom as love burst.
September: Eating a Lot of Honey
This Manuka a carroty sheen,
brackish velvet hastening to sugar
fragmenting as chimes on the tongue.
Those chimes re-strung by his jaunty fingers.
I held those small darkening hands
through his childhood, never expecting
anything so beautiful as dangling honey off the branch
in the shape of two outstretched hands of light.
There are other kinds of honey, too, comb and cream
raw and sweet, entering where the song of light goes.
This is what history gives her:
Notes of something else altogether
within the tiny spaces once occupied
the shucks of snow that have not yet been shoveled.
a spider's web in the hands of a small girl
a ladybird she once held softly,
before the vanishing of fireflies on sallow walls.
The mimicking of hedonism,
snow tunnels and throngs of thirsting,
numbing of lips,
ridiculing of a knot.
not letting go
the boulder wind and ice.
Copyright 2016. Christine Tsen. All rights reserved.