is like faking an orgasm—
everyone involved is cheated,
and anyone familiar with the rhythm of the real thing
knows it
arrives unannounced, can’t be scheduled
or forced into being with fumbling fingers.
It gasps into the sheets
of paper its primal cry,
screaming I am here
and you did not make me—
and when the motion and stroke of
the pen is
finally stilled,
[far too quickly, it always seems]
you share a cigarette
and mumble some wishful words about keeping in touch,
knowing damn well
it comes
and goes
as it pleases.
I read a lot of poetry. As a rule most of it is written without thought to skill in its expression, especially in the form of free verse. I find most of it lackluster and redundant, while your verse is to the contrary. I rarely pause to comment.... thank you for this opportunity... superb!
I read a lot of poetry. As a rule most of it is written without thought to skill in its expression, especially in the form of free verse. I find most of it lackluster and redundant, while your verse is to the contrary. I rarely pause to comment.... thank you for this opportunity... superb!
I couldn't let this wonderful thing get off without a comment. (smile)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Thanks so much - I really appreciate you taking the time to comment on it. It is pleasing to know that someone's day was brightened by something I've written - that's the whole point, I guess! :)