The hands in black satin gloves glide across the smooth surface of what holds the lifeless. Her husband kneels beside her casket, giving her a final kiss. There is weeping in the great hall. It is cold, and outside rain falls. Silver haired women adorning black veils conceal gold crucifix necklaces beneath black shawls. Old men who have survived many years of deep sorrow sit stoically in the back rows. Tears stream as cold rain turns into snow. There are variations of flowers in many different colors, but the lifeless does not know. Six strapping men stand in position to lift her again. After hoisting, they walk slowly in tandem; each one of them wearing gloves of black satin. Rose petals fall gently on snow as if the roses themselves shed tears in mourning. Winter winds carry the sounds of sorrow. A sea of black is the procession that follows. Black clothes contrast against white snow as if the pitch darkness of night was invading the brightness of daylight. Elder men lean on vintage brass handle walking canes at the grave site. Widowers comfort each other as they gather. Though usually stoic—still, they cry for her. She was a beautiful wife and mother they whisper. At the moment of the lowering, her husband falls to his knees; weeping, he reaches for her. She was immensely loved. She no longer lives, yet still, she does.
Category: Poetry
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I love you deeply,
She said genuinely
From sensuous lips
So sweetly. -
There is nothing left but the reserved resoluteness of the untouched depths when unending torment is expressed through anguished breaths of the insomniac who flirts with the seducing whispers of death. Oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God—pray for us all, for we are tearful as we continuously fall. Winter is here now, and the trees are stripped of their leaves. Mercy is no more, for the afflicted struggle to breathe. There is a dreadful recompense that will cause all oppressors to cry out in excruciating pain as they are brought to their knees. The anguished no longer ask for understanding, for the depths of them have already been revealed.
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Still, there are words left unspoken years after I thought I had completely purged you from my system. Fucking other women was supposed to be my exorcism. My feelings for you were supposed to end. With every intense release of passion there should have been more distance. I made love passionately and intensely in the rapture of deep intimacy to women who told me that they loved me, but your memory is my prison. In the company of friends and associates I feigned indifference to stave off the outward signs of emotional ruin. Fuck her they would tell me, and I would pretend to agree with them. I’ve never been a man to be consumed by any particular obsession. As a fatherless child, I was raised by stern uncles who taught me to control my emotions in the company of men, and be exceptionally stoic in the company of women. Perhaps they would think that I have strayed from their discipline if they ever heard any of my intimate whisperings. Confessions have been told and tears have flowed before love making at 3:00 A.M. Naked and drenched in sweat saying barely coherent words through heavy whispery breaths, an attempted exorcism is in progress yet again.
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U.S. Poet Laureate, Natasha Trethewey; a brief introduction and two readings:
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Before your inception you were a beautiful destiny, meant to be a radiant light and comfort to many. You may be berated unjustly by some publicly, but in secrecy you are their adoration and their envy. The calmness of your heart is infectious, taming the ferocity of the beast of anxiety. You have suffered cruelty, and you have shed tears endlessly. You have held painful secrets for years tearfully, reluctant to tell anybody. Your cross is extremely heavy, and you carry it, sometimes having to drag it on bloodied and scarred knees. You give of yourself selflessly and generously, yet no one seems to see your needs; no one offers a kiss or a gift or a gesture of preciousness. They constantly take from you without even a turn of the head to say thank you. You were violated and abused, yet they still don’t believe you.
I see you my angel; I offer all the love that I have in my heart, and I send you gifts of gratitude. I see you on the train, tired from work and in pain. I see you walking home with sorrowful eyes under dark skies and heavy rain. I see you nodding off from exhaustion before you board your plane. I see the disappointment on your face after speaking to the man you thought that loved you, only to realize he forgot your name. I see the wounding of your soul when you are tearful and words escape you, but you don’t have to explain. My beautiful and precious angel, you never have to explain. My soul is also wounded — I understand your pain. I understand the depth of your silent cries, because I cry the same.
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Two Valiums then deep sleep comes, interrupting the intensity of unending devastation. Racing thoughts slow to a crawl then the heart rate falls. The face of beauty who gave birth to me is immortalized in a dark walnut wooden picture frame aligned adjacent to a wooden rosary perfectly against a lamp lit wall. Diazepam 20 mg fully absorbed into the bloodstream may be enough for the half-life of an angelic dream. Sleep is a welcomed substitute for tears that endlessly stream. I stare lovingly at my mother, swearing on everything that I hear her whisper, Victor, the terror won’t last forever. Avoidance of despondency forces me to fight viciously against whatever and whoever. Heavy blackout curtains block the light so I can sleep longer. On my nightstand there is an antique lamp, a prescription vial, natural lavender and one third of a cup of water next to a glass vase filled with burgundy Amaryllis flowers. I reflect on the state of my life in a candlelit bathroom beneath hot soapy water. After about an hour somnolence totally takes over.
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War
I seek not strife, but if it is war let it be war forever. I am of the likeness of my mother, erasing the face of the cowardice of my father. I have sought reconciliation, but now war is in my heart, so I seek reconciliation no longer. I am the son of heaven’s daughter. Instead of sorrow, I would rather laughter. Instead of unhappiness, I would rather have joy now and in the hereafter. The sentiments of my soul run deep through many mighty rivers. To the mighty and beautiful Redwood trees I will read my story aloud then listen closely for the whispers of their ponder. I’ve strived to be a man well remembered. I wade in deep dark waters facing the sinister anxiety that seeks to destroy me; for long I have warred with unrelenting horror. It is when blood runs and tears fall that I have given all that I can render.
—Intermission—
Passion
Beautiful whisperings, crying, and the exchange of expensive rings mean nothing if sentiments of love are not genuine. After love making, so much beauty is found in intimate conversation. There is so much depth and true feeling in the heart of an ardent woman. In the embrace of true love there is room to begin again. When long held secrets are divulged and tears run you will know that a genuine and unbreakable love has come. Endless joy is a spiritual immersion. I take a look at myself, the younger version, and I take heed to the wisdom of love’s lessons. There is nothing more romantic than sincere words spoken of the heart’s emotion followed by kisses of passion. Carnal desire is pleasure, but when paired with true love it becomes blue flames of everlasting fire. Marriage is not signatures on paper, it is the coming together and bonding of one another in passionate love forever.
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Christy Turlington turned around and stunned in a black evening gown. Naomi Campbell walked briskly on white marble and brought the house down. Helen Williams was elegant and demure, adorning white dress gloves, diamond earrings, and white fur. Marilyn came in smiling and graced the crowd with a breathtaking spin. Chrystèle whispered something in my ear, but it was a packed gathering and I couldn’t hear. Capucine set the high ceiling on fire with her red hair. In Dior, Ivy Nicholson shot me a glare as she stood statuesque beneath a beautiful crystal chandelier. Yasmeen Ghauri was absolutely beautiful, wearing stiletto mules with a deep V-Neck cocktail dress, navy blue. Donyale Luna and I danced together wonderfully; I marveled at her beauty when after, she told me of her adventures in Italy and recited passionate poetry. There was a surprise appearance by Jayne Kennedy who happened to hear about the gala in the midst of shooting her latest movie. Vonetta McGee joined the party with majestically curled hair, immaculate makeup, and almond eyes that moved me. Diane Keaton arrived with Pat Cleveland who was wearing Chanel everything for the evening. I had been drinking, but I swore that I saw Marilyn kissing Rock Hudson. Beside me a stunning woman was singing, whose name happened to be Nancy Wilson. Donyale lit a cigarette and deeply inhaled. Linda Evangelista sported vintage haute couture; Cindy Crawford conquered in ready-to-wear Louis Vuitton when she walked through the door. I politely complimented Tyra on her attire — she smiled and said, thank you in a calming whisper.
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We weep, yet we are not weak.
Intimate Compositions 