Friday, February 25, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
I will sit here and try to think
of words for you.
And if I don't succeed today,
I will try again tomorrow.
February 1, 2011
. . .
I'll write of you, if I dare,
I will write in words that I can find,
if I can find,
if I can spy,
and when I do, I'll pen them quick
and kiss them well,
for they have been elusive things.
It is a lifetime's endeavour,
specific, and poignant, and ageless.
Words too large would drown you.
Words too small mightn't suffice,
but it's the littlest words that fit into these spaces
(the delicate, trembling,
I have for you.
So I will search them out,
on road signs,
and in library books;
and pages of Scripture;
and in mindless files,
and in root words,
and grammatical text.
I will look for your words
and in postscripts,
and in old shoeboxes;
on discarded magazine piles,
on the backs of poets' receipts;
I'll trace out the stars
and connect the dots;
I'll tip my head and squint my eyes
to find you script
and antique tablature.
I'll listen for you
in childish prattle on the playground,
in my own head's recitations;
in lexical lists I've filed in notebooks
on my dusty shelves.
I will sit inside myself, hours and hours,
I will sit and contrive;
I shall will my mind to dream up terms
and luscious phrase that can compare
to your face,
to our lifetime,
and to this breathlessness.
And if I cannot find you words, my love;
if I burn out this candle and cannot find
a second wind
and all the life inside of my exhales
until the flame is snuffed
like a tiny film of ephemeral smoke,
wisp into the air with my last breath--
if then I cannot find you language, love,
I wrote you sonnets inside myself
on love, and awe, and silence.
February 1, 2011