Michael Ondaatje Poems
|1.||Nine Sentiments (IX)||4/18/2017|
|4.||The Great Tree||4/18/2017|
|5.||[What were the names of the towns]||4/18/2017|
|6.||[Kissing the stomach]||4/18/2017|
|8.||The Time Around Scars||4/18/2017|
|9.||Notes For The Legend Of Salad Woman||1/13/2003|
|12.||Speaking To You (From Rock Bottom)||1/13/2003|
|13.||Application For A Driving License||1/13/2003|
|15.||To A Sad Daughter||1/13/2003|
|16.||The Cinnamon Peeler||1/13/2003|
The Cinnamon Peeler
If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
And leave the yellow bark dust
On your pillow.
Your breasts and shoulders would reek
You could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.
Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbour to you hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.
I could hardly ...
Griffin calls to come and kiss him goodnight
I yell ok. Finish something I'm doing,
then something else, walk slowly round
the corner to my son's room.
He is standing arms outstretched
waiting for a bearhug. Grinning.
Why do I give my emotion an animal's name,
give it that dark squeeze of death?