Full Moon & You're Not Here
Useless moon,
Too beautiful to waste.
But you, my Cinderella,
have the midnight curfew,
a son waiting to be picked up from his den meeting,
and the fractured marriage weighing on your head
like a crown of thorns.
Oh my beauty,
it’s not polite
to keep me waiting.
To send me reeling in a spiral
and then to say good night.
I smoke a cigar,
play a tango,
gulp my gin and tonic.
Goddamn you.
Full moon and you’re not here.
I take off the silk slip,
the silver bangels.
You’re in love with my mind.
But, sometimes, sweetheart,
a woman needs a man
who loves her ass
Sandra Cisneros: Poem 1
"My Friend Turns Beautiful Before My Eyes"
Sir Walter Raleigh,
dimity and damask,
rococo and arabesque,
batiste and challis,
handkerchief and crumpled glove.
Love, I don't know
how you suddenly grew lovely,
why I never noticed last
summer, nor the summers before
when the hard sun died
anything before it bloomed.
My seasonal lovers have come and gone.
And you were there, friend,
cold as porcelain,
mute as the milk moon.
I was afraid of you then.
Did you notice
I never hovered
in the cab of your pickup
when we good-byed,
when the pecan trees
rustled and shushed.
A pink lantern burning
patient on my porch.
Nipped kiss. Screen door
slammed. I danced
barefoot with the cat
when I was alone.
Glass of wine,
candle, my brush
across my hair a hundred
times. And now,
here you are.
Little asterisk, little
How-I-wonder-what-you-are
upon my linen.
Incest! Error!
My head split in two--
half of me preening its feathers,
the other watching from
a stool and sneering--
Fool!
Sir Walter Raleigh,
dimity and damask,
rococo and arabesque,
batiste and challis,
handkerchief and crumpled glove.
Love, I don't know
how you suddenly grew lovely,
why I never noticed last
summer, nor the summers before
when the hard sun died
anything before it bloomed.
My seasonal lovers have come and gone.
And you were there, friend,
cold as porcelain,
mute as the milk moon.
I was afraid of you then.
Did you notice
I never hovered
in the cab of your pickup
when we good-byed,
when the pecan trees
rustled and shushed.
A pink lantern burning
patient on my porch.
Nipped kiss. Screen door
slammed. I danced
barefoot with the cat
when I was alone.
Glass of wine,
candle, my brush
across my hair a hundred
times. And now,
here you are.
Little asterisk, little
How-I-wonder-what-you-are
upon my linen.
Incest! Error!
My head split in two--
half of me preening its feathers,
the other watching from
a stool and sneering--
Fool!
Sandra Cisneros: Poem 2
I Don't Like Being in Love
Not like this. Not tonight,
a white stone. When you're 36
and seething like sixteen
next to the telephone,
and you don't know where.
And worse -- with whom?
I don't care for this fruit. This
Mexican love hidden in the boot.
This knotted braid. Birthcord buried
beneath the knuckle of the heart.
Cat at the window scratching at
the windswept moon
scurrying along, scurrying along.
Trees rattling. Screen
doors banging raspy.
Brain a whorl of swirling
fish. Oh, not like this.
Not this.
-- Sandra Cisneros
Not like this. Not tonight,
a white stone. When you're 36
and seething like sixteen
next to the telephone,
and you don't know where.
And worse -- with whom?
I don't care for this fruit. This
Mexican love hidden in the boot.
This knotted braid. Birthcord buried
beneath the knuckle of the heart.
Cat at the window scratching at
the windswept moon
scurrying along, scurrying along.
Trees rattling. Screen
doors banging raspy.
Brain a whorl of swirling
fish. Oh, not like this.
Not this.
-- Sandra Cisneros
Sandras Cisneros: Poem 3
Night Madness Poem
There's a poem in my head
like too many cups of coffee.
A pea under twenty eiderdowns.
A sadness in my heart like stone.
A telephone. And always my
Night madness that outs like bats
across this Texas sky.
I'm the crazy lady they warned you about.
The she of rumor talked about -
and worse, who talks.
It's no secret.
I'm here. Under a circle of light.
The light always on, resisting a glass,
an easy cigar. The kind
who reels the twilight sky.
Swoop circling.
I'm witch woman high
on tobacco and holy water.
I'm a woman delighted with her disasters.
They give me something to do.
A profession of sorts.
Keeps me industrious
And of some servicable use.
In dreams the origami of the brain
Opens like a fist, a pomegranate,
an expensive geometry.
Not true.
I haven't a clue
Why I'm rumpled tonight.
Choose your weapon.
Mine--the telephone, my tongue.
Both black as a gun.
I have the magic of words,
the power to charm and kill at will.
To kill myself or to aim haphazardly.
And kill you.
There's a poem in my head
like too many cups of coffee.
A pea under twenty eiderdowns.
A sadness in my heart like stone.
A telephone. And always my
Night madness that outs like bats
across this Texas sky.
I'm the crazy lady they warned you about.
The she of rumor talked about -
and worse, who talks.
It's no secret.
I'm here. Under a circle of light.
The light always on, resisting a glass,
an easy cigar. The kind
who reels the twilight sky.
Swoop circling.
I'm witch woman high
on tobacco and holy water.
I'm a woman delighted with her disasters.
They give me something to do.
A profession of sorts.
Keeps me industrious
And of some servicable use.
In dreams the origami of the brain
Opens like a fist, a pomegranate,
an expensive geometry.
Not true.
I haven't a clue
Why I'm rumpled tonight.
Choose your weapon.
Mine--the telephone, my tongue.
Both black as a gun.
I have the magic of words,
the power to charm and kill at will.
To kill myself or to aim haphazardly.
And kill you.
Forgetting Why
Smell her eyelashes
and forget where the minute went
tossing legs that close tightly
over and over
pushing away the wandering pain
of numbness.
Confusion wrapped in
overreaction or
slow revelation
that hurts so sharp
that wandering toward it
feels like seppuku.
Kill her
quickly so that she
gets what she deserves–
awkward facial expressions
without time to
say goodbye, show remorse
or relinquish her last day of mediocre sins.
and forget where the minute went
tossing legs that close tightly
over and over
pushing away the wandering pain
of numbness.
Confusion wrapped in
overreaction or
slow revelation
that hurts so sharp
that wandering toward it
feels like seppuku.
Kill her
quickly so that she
gets what she deserves–
awkward facial expressions
without time to
say goodbye, show remorse
or relinquish her last day of mediocre sins.
Things I learned from Tutoring...
This is an excerpt from the notes I am using to help my student understand her reading homework:
"Sexual intercourse is the richest encounter possible, and out of this encounter a new being is created. The creative encounter is similar to sexual intercourse in its encounter, partial withdrawal pattern. The two opposites become united as in the creative encounter. It is this continuous experience of encounter and re-encounter that is significant in terms of creativity. The process is what is important. It brings change to both the subjective and the objective poles. The particular forms resulting from the creative process are symbol and myth, which reveal the relationship between conscious and unconscious experience."
Yeowsa...lol.
"Sexual intercourse is the richest encounter possible, and out of this encounter a new being is created. The creative encounter is similar to sexual intercourse in its encounter, partial withdrawal pattern. The two opposites become united as in the creative encounter. It is this continuous experience of encounter and re-encounter that is significant in terms of creativity. The process is what is important. It brings change to both the subjective and the objective poles. The particular forms resulting from the creative process are symbol and myth, which reveal the relationship between conscious and unconscious experience."
Yeowsa...lol.
"Slowly, So Slowly, Slowly"
Trident
Don’t call me woman
Unless you say I am
Your woman
In only the best way possible
That I am yours
Because you
Understand and
Respect me.
Don’t wait for me to make up my mind
When I have asked you three times
For your opinion
I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t
Want it.
Is it a contradiction
To want a man
Who is a man?
Who knows how to take care
And let me take the lead
As well?
Passing back and forth
Awaiting the other’s response
In a timely manner
Passing back and forth
Finding the clench in the eyes.
I don’t want to go forth
When the past is so close
Sitting in the dents of my shoes
Like the deterring bubble gum that it is.
Don’t call me woman
Unless you want me to be
Your woman
And you mean it
In the best way
You can.
J. McIntyre
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