Speak, Fence, Soar

It’s not what was spoken; it’s what went unsaid.
It’s not that you agreed; it’s that you failed to disagree.
It’s not that you couldn’t dream; it’s that you wouldn’t jump.
Speak to me– tongue ignited,
Fence with me– sharpened blade drawn,
Soar with me–  clipped wings be damned.
~Contessa Confessa

Relish

I relish the taste of my hate for you,
pungent, mustard-like, forever
on the tip of my tongue,
til death do us part.

Oh how I wrestled and fought myself,
spitting coffin nails,
swallowing spider’s blood, attempts
to rid my mouth of you.

Deciding instead to marry the flavor,
tongue shimmies into its wedding dress,
whispering “I do,” vowing
to love to hate you.
~Contessa Confessa

Eye of the Beholder

I hung in the shadows of your life,
A prominent, deserving Mona Lisa,
Yearning to be displayed– front and center.
Stripped from the walls of your heart,
Relegated to a corner in the garage,
A discarded, garish Velvet Elvis,
Paper sign tacked to frame– ”make best offer.”
~Contessa Confessa

Poetry Nook: Featured Poem by Michael Blumenthal

Having My Way with You

You ride me into the late light like your good horse
and, because it reminds you of how they once
described women in Victorian romances, you say,
“I’m having my way with you.” What a thing
for a woman to say to a man, I think to myself,
looking up at your white cheeks gone rosy
with the thrust of me, as if you were both Iseult
the Fair and Iseult of the White Hands at once,
and I feel the pleasure of your pleasure
and the pleasure of my own, and realize
we may all yet rise into the good light of love
from a position of helplessness, that this
may be the thing all lovers wish for: you
having your way with me having my way with you.

Sheer, With Bow

i don’t love you,
i’m not even sure i like you.

yet i shower and shave for you,
perfumed lotion to legs and hair,
innocent white cotton panties,
sheer, with bow.

hints of promises i cannot keep,
tortured rituals, fruitless efforts,
for a lover never known.

wishing my hair was the only thing
i teased.
-Contessa Confessa

Ghost of Christmas Present

Glad to be home,
glad to be one,
glad to be minus tears.
~Contessa Confessa

The Ghost of Christmas Past

A pair of eyes dark brown–
sullen pools on starless night,
petitioning the devil for mercy;
(they no longer dance).

A pair of lips pale pink–
trembling petals on thorny stem,
daring the wind to pluck them;
(they no longer kiss).

A pair of hands slender white–
bare nails on Catholic school chalkboard,
begging the gods to harken;
(they no longer pray).
~Contessa Confessa

One of Ten…

A few nights ago, I stumbled upon a poetry bulletin board where posters were encouraged to list their top ten favorite poems.  Will, most likely, be hard for me to pick just ten– but here’s my attempt (beginning with this poem– others soon to follow):

Mock Orange
Louise Gluck

It is not the moon, I tell you.
It is these flowers
lighting the yard.

I hate them.
I hate them as I hate sex,
the man’s mouth
sealing my mouth, the man’s
paralyzing body–

and the cry that always escapes,
the low, humiliating
premise of union–

In my mind tonight
I hear the question and pursuing answer
fused in one sound
that mounts and mounts and then
is split into the old selves,
the tired antagonisms. Do you see?
We were made fools of.
And the scent of mock orange
drifts through the window.

How can I rest?
How can I be content
while there is still
that odor in the world?