The Poetry Of  
Marie Lecrivain
o'sean
I never wanted
to remember you, but,
it's late afternoon,
I am tired & the mind
plays tricks... I see you
seated next to me,
caramel skin smoothed
over a Rodin's sculpted torso,
with strong arms & arrogant lips
that took what
they wanted one night
at a one star hotel
on the edge of Van Nuys,
in a room with
chlorine-scented sheets
& the Gideon Bible opened
to the Songs of Solomon...
Funny, how I remember
this particular detail,... &
though it's been 16 years,
I can feel the reverberations
of animistic passion
running through me,
causing my lips to darken
& my pulse to quicken;
but, again, it's late, &
the mind plays tricks, &
I see – now -
that you are "not" you...
but someone else...
your son, perhaps, &
I turn my head
the other way
grateful for the
passage of years,
& glad to know
the girl within
still remains...
To The Divine Ms. M.M.
"the word of sin is restriction" - Liber AL vel Legis
Funny, how for all
those hundreds of years,
you let yourself
be portrayed
as someone other than
who you were -
as a woman
to be pitied, scorned,
or, even laughed at,
as I am wont to do
in front of
Titian's masterpiece
this Saturday afternoon.
However, as your
reluctant namesake, and,
as someone, who,
in the second third
of her incarnation,
understands that
veiling myself
in the illusion
of mere womanhood
is a sin, I can now
admire your subtlety
to exceed the strictures
placed upon you - in the
cosmic colors of
your wrap, in the grail
quietly shining
by your side, and
in the ecstasy
of your expression -
that beatific moment
when wisdom is attained -
and, how, now,
the moniker "whore,"
regains its original
and beloved
equilibrium...
Red Rose Confessional
Dear Sister, please forgive me;
I can't help but admire
how I fell into your trap
as you spoke to me in
confidential tones regarding
the precepts of Love & Death.
&, I confess, I don't
understand the etymology
of the word "sisterhood,"
as it exists in your lexicon.
As I became more aware of
the undertone of conquest
in your voice, I marvel
at how effortlessly you invoke
my uncertainty, how you
draw forth the sword of agony
I have hidden from view.
I know there is a lesson
to be learned in between
the layers of your verbiage,
but in the meantime,
thank you for reminding me
of that one weapon
I refuse to employ...
& that it is time for me
to put aside the sword,
bask in the sun, & tend to
my festering wounds.
While Listening to Chopin's Nocturnes Askew
I.
I am not waxing pastoral
as you lead me
into the twilight.
Reluctant to be drawn to
this realm of beauty,
I shift into wakefulness
at the full symphony
of crows cawing
harsh lullabies &
warm autumn breezes
blowing around us.
I know this
is supposed to be
dramatic & fun,
but I am driven
almost to my knees,
trying desperately
not to weep
in the light
of your hope...
Why couldn't you
leave me alone?
II.
Ahhh.... I've been
such a fool. As the
midnight hour approaches,
you tease me
over my initial reluctance
to partake of this
amorous adventure.
Drowsy & flushed,
we lay nestled
among the roots
of the Tree of Life,
caressing each others'
languid limbs, wishing
to prolong the slow
ascendancy, the increased
play of passionate notes
swimming in our blood;
fuel to launch us
into the highest
reaches of Nothing,
flying as One,
until that moment,
sated & timeless,
we fall back into
ourselves.
III.
Why are we trapped
in layers of familiarity
& contempt?
I suppose, in
these final hours,
anathema & ennui
are natural end-products
of a life lived
inside a nocturne
with you... &
it pains me
to see you flinch,
your smile shattering
at my touch.
I want to resist
the darkening
of memory, the
evaporation
of your kisses
grown dry...
at best, I hope
we will fade
into a faint melody
for future lovers
whose open ears &
upturned palms
will catch a soft
note or two,
of what we
once were,
& what
again,
will
be...
Main Page
This site sponsored by
|
|
|