Saturday, June 18, 2011


I was running around today trying to get some much needed cleaning and errands done, and came across a poem I wrote a few years ago while in grad school. Reading it now, I definitely find some wince-inducing errors, but at the same time I realize that I wouldn't change a word. The poem itself was inspired by my now fiancĂ©e, and the feelings and images I included in the poem are like a time capsule or snapshot of our relationship. Changing or editing the poem now would be like trying to change or erase history. I suppose I’m also being rather biased because I feel as if those feelings have only grown since I wrote the poem. However, I suppose this might be the same feeling avid journal or diary writers get when reading past entries—a sense that they are watching a very accurate documentary of not only their lives, but their feelings at each moment. The name of my poem is Five Summers. Do you have any old works that you’ve found fault with but would never change? If you do, please share your reasons for either loving or hating it today, despite or because of its flaws.

Five Summers
Five summers have passed since first your soul
Tangled mine. Unearthly chains forged true
With each kiss, each sigh of the heart rejoiced
In Hephaestus’ gift to only us,
No jealous God can dispatch.

Five summers spent loving muscle
And flesh with words panted harshly
In heat, whispered earnestly in silence,
Cleaved your heart to my breast.

Five summers while time has suckled sweetly
Love, the milk still fresh. Winters have come
And gone, cold orbs quickly warmed by
Spring’s sun, swelling rushing rivers
To summer’s shore, stroking frenzied bodies
Forever embraced, entwined.

Five summers, no space between. Secrets
Exists no more love. Breath for breath,
We are Death’s charmed catch, blessed. And still,
I crave you. A simple thing. Come, rest
Upon my breast. Breathe in my soul.

Five summers, consumed with hands slowly
Drifting round. Tilt, sway, kiss, holdfast,
Perfect fit. Till time ends love. Dig
Deeper love, the earth cannot but yield.
The dense dirt cannot dare to hold.
Our constant love is too bold.
Write to you soon,

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