arts / jazz / music / poetry / Uncategorized / writing

February 14: Valentines, 2013

My Funny Valentine

If you think this is about you, then it probably is

One Love


Previous years

One Love

For all my loves
past, present, and future.
For the living and the dead,
for those who have gone to a greater love,
still living in my heart,
a slim girl walking through broken glass,
a fat woman opening up like a sliced peach;
for those still living for whom I’m dead,
whose lives go on without me.
For those who went on to new loves,
whose loving I embrace
even as we now refrain from embracing.
For those present and not present,
for the pain of being together
and the joy of separation,
for absences and new meetings,
for those who said yes
and even more for those who said no,
and those who said they wanted to say yes
but still refused me.
For the one boy I could be a man with
and all the women who sought out
the woman in me.
For the whores and the strippers and the porn stars
who have populated my lonely days,
for the wet dreams
who left me stranded like a drowneded fish
upon the barnacled rocks of the morning.
For trim buttocks winking away down a railway platform,
the breastless, slim-hipped as boys,
and women enormous in silk blouses,
legs like treestumps,
ankles like differential gears,
eyes dark and light as sandstone,
noses hawklike and snub-buttoned,
lips wide and skinny,
teeth savage in their perfection
and scroggled one upon another in a jumbled mouth
which opens to take me,
warm and generous,
light as sudden laughter,
wet as long-expected tears,
lips unexpectedly dry,
closed, welcoming,
unready, fulfilling hoped-for promise,
howling at the scarlet sky
within my eyelids.
For those I have exploited
and those, unknowingly,
whom I have been exploited by.
For the known and unknown,
the distant and by my side
(and the one becoming the other),
for the totally me
and the totally not mine,
for the always ready
and those needing time to prepare themselves,
for the silent,
for those whose chatter staves off the night,
for the body language,
for the flash of eye and twist of mouth,
for the wordy and the unworded,
the articulate and the incoherent cry of happiness,
for the chaste and the voluptuous,
the virgin mother of god,
and the mother of all,
the condemned and the forbidden,
the permitted and compulsory,
the now and the then
and tomorrow
which never comes.
For the light and the dark,
the moon by day
and the sun at night,
for golden darkling,
and black greyness of rain-wet dawns,
snow blown cold into our faces,
and sun reflecting off blue-lapped beaches,
the birth of hedgerows
and the death of corn,
the hollow mountain
and the valley rising to the green horizon,
for treefall and larkrise,
for chimney tower
and burnt-out factory,
for railway sleepers
and broken bridges,
for tower blocks tenanted like prisoners,
and thatch-haired villages
we drive through,
anxious to reach destinations
which are always the same,
yet never where we expected to go.
For jets stinking their paraffin into the sky,
travelling to download their shit
on to the upturned innocents
a world away.
For the man with the gun
standing guard at the frontier,
for the millions waiting silently,
afraid of where they’ve been
and where they might be sent back to,
for those whose lives have been shattered,
for the green shoots of new life
between the broken flags of the way things were,
for those who are trying to remember,
for those who can never forget,
for memories of the way things ought to be,
for the abuser and the abused.
For Cain mourning at the grave of Abel,
for Lucifer remembering when he was the morning star,
for David recalling the love of Jonathan,
for Herod putting the murderers to the sword,
for the disciple whom Jesus loved,
for Pilate finding no water
to wash away the stain upon his hands,
for Caiaphas convening a new kangaroo court
to condemn those who condemned
the birth of love into the world.
For life flourishing in the desert,
for dewdamp sweet under sundried rocks,
for stones which cut our feet,
for the green mirage
of promises yet unfulfilled,
for the black chill
of stars marching across our tent-sky,
for the warmth of bodies
huddling together to keep out the night.
For the chink-chink of the gravedigger’s spade just yesterday,
for the angry howl of the new-born tomorrow,
the milk-sweet satisfaction of being named a child,
the hard bite of the chisel carving the gravestone,
for the beginning which has no ending,
the end which is a new beginning,
the circle and the harmony of the spheres,
the music of revolution,
rounding the singularity where it all began
and soon shall end,
the water boiled off as steam,
the ice first contracting then expanding even as it freezes,
Clausius watching a kettle cool,
the influenza virus floating between the stars,
the nothing that became everything,
the undivided
who poured himself out into our human clay,
the love that may not be named,
for to name is to limit,
and the limitless became man
so we could imagine him with us,
one love,
one eternal,
one at the beginning,
one at the ending,
one in your arms,
one in the space beside me where you are not,
one in all the faces of the ones I love,
in the faces and names I can no longer remember,
holy holy holy,
indivisible by zero,
infinity to the infinite power,
small as the dewsweat between your breasts,
large as the caverns I find between your thighs,
round as the clocksweep,
high as the curlew cry,
deep as the roseleaf raindrop,
the loneliest number,
yet three:
and I
and I,

Jah love.
So mote it be.

February 26-March 1, 2000


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