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.
Category: Poetry
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U.S. Poet Laureate, Natasha Trethewey; a brief introduction and two readings:
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I dreamt of several rows of Ferragamo Oxford plain toe and Square toe shoes in preternatural white marble rooms. With them were perfectly pressed heavily starched white dress shirts, Purple Label navy blue blazers, and black Ferragamo Chelsea boots. There were several large rooms filled with beautifully tailored hand-made suits. My collection was extensive; initial engraved solid gold money clips were used for incidentals and evening expenses. Black and blue Ferragamo Moccasins with bicolor ornaments and loafers with metal tips were in abundance. I employed a dynamic staff of highly skilled les petites mains and tailors with several years of experience. My ateliers were located in the penthouse at Central Park Tower with a breathtaking view of New York City’s lights at dusk. My dream was exceptionally vivid. Solid gold and diamond encrusted cufflinks gleaming at an extremely envied private evening event was exceptionally exquisite. For that particular gathering I wore Ferragamo Oxford with metal tip. The lady that accompanied me wore Givenchy black G Cube leather sandals with gold anklet and a Givenchy evening dress in flawless fit.
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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.
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Speak to me one last time before eternal silence comes and I am left undone. Before finality makes its haste, let us kiss passionately in our final embrace, my tears of love falling endlessly on your angelic face. Forgive me if I have ever hurt you. My tears are tears of love and the sentiments of deep sorrow. Let us now confess our love for each other fervently and forget about tomorrow. We hold on to each other perpetually never letting go. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, but I swear on my own blood that the angels with sentimental tears write about us. I swear on my mother’s blood that I love you with all my heart. Neither life nor death could pull us apart. You wipe my tears away as the world falls away. Don’t go; please stay. What fate is this that I fall on my knees beside your bedside and weep trying to appeal to the empathy of destiny to give us at least one more day? Hold on, baby; breathe. Take my breath, and come into the picturesque gardens of my secret depths. Let your hair down and dance with me in vineyards of glory. Take all of me. Take me with you on your peaceful journey. In my loving embrace the last tears fall from your eyes. To find you, I will search my heart’s secret chambers and look toward the skies. You sleep, my love. You sleep. You are immensely beautiful. I love you.
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The underneath whispers to me incessantly with sweet promises of eternal peace. It says, The flesh is fragile and temporary; all you have to do is close your eyes and release. It comes to me in my vulnerability saying softly, Victor, I know that you are tired and that you unceasingly weep; I am the underneath — in me you will find the comfort of deep sleep. The body is still, still, storms rage beneath linen sheets. Darkness hides sorrowful eyes that weep. There is no more warmth after the heart ceases to beat. Many faces smile, but a deep and draining torment lies underneath. At the lowering, hypocrites throw roses and weep after writing bullshit carbon copy eulogies for the deceased. From foul breath and diseased teeth they utter generic garbage like, He’s now in a place of peace. On the dime of the deceased they consume alcoholic drinks, and gluttonous pigs do eat. The underneath embraces its permanent residents over six feet deep. The whispers of it still echo, urging the living despondent to finally let go.
Intimate Compositions 