You are loving, passionate, and profoundly intimate with a beautiful spirit. What others do not see in you, I do. You are a rarity chosen from even among the few. From your inception you were a blessing. You are a deeply devoted woman and sincere in your giving. The intellect of you is pleasing. To sit and converse with you is to talk to a woman of immense understanding. Your discourse is refreshing. Moreover, your resilience is infectious, resurrecting hope in the hopeless. Your words are seeds in the hearts of men that spring forth life. You are honored both in silence and in vocalness. The eyes of your admirers fall upon you with illuminated wonder. You are the glory of the dawn of the rising sun after a stormy night in September. You are a friend, lover, businesswoman, deep well of compassion, mother, sister, and daughter crowned under heaven’s cover. You are gorgeous; an object of desire. In your bosom there is fire. Your recognition is that of a different caliber. Your love is invaluable. To weep in your arms and let go is a transcendental therapy unknown. To walk in your feminine is to walk in the sacred nature of your being. Many times you are a healer without knowing. You are one thousand rivers peacefully flowing in synchronized rhythm with gardens, vineyards, and fields of pink roses surrounding them . In stellar light there you stand glowing. There is great comfort in the tone of your voice. Your delicate touch causes tears to well up in the eyes of the afflicted and the anxious. You are loved, so much. You are precious. You are a red diamond untouched.
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Beautiful mother, daughter of Constancia, hear the words that I whisper: you are in my heart, and I will love you forever. There will be no reconciliation with the person who is supposedly my father. His memory is washed away from me like drops of water in a raging flood. He is unworthy and cowardly; I renounce the lineage of his blood.
Search my soul, and read the letters of my heart detailing the trauma within me that is untold. I am a flower alone in a dark and desolate place that withers in the cold. My petals fall and are taken in the wind. Here, it is unforgiving. There is no compassion or understanding. I am at war with demons; I slay with sword and shield unrelenting.
Amaryliss, let me feel the warmth of your presence. Comfort your descendant with a kiss. Embrace me in celestial sunshine. Sing to me the songs of your mother and her mother and all those before her. Bestow upon me preternatural power. Be with me, especially in my most despondent hours. Let me float on peaceful waters in my slumber. Strip away from me all hindrances that threaten my ascension. My blood is your blood — I am eternally your faithful son.
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Fearless beauty overlooks the lights of the city. Black hair flowing over black satin bestows upon her the mysterious darkness of a raven. She is vampiric in nature — sleeping all day then at night awakening. There was a time when she held back, showing mercy; now, she slays in heels, conquering all that she can see, flawlessly. No, she will not fucking suffer in silence quietly. She has many lovers, not fucking them all separately, necessarily. She drinks an amaretto sour and smokes a cigarette at an ultra exclusive event. She stalks the secret places where lascivious noises are heard from people fucking with masked faces. If she wants you to know her, you will know her. If not, she will remain nameless and faceless with no traces. The night calls her, and she answers with a whisper. A tempest fast approaches. She is lightning. She is thunder.
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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.
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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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A timeless performance from Julie McKnight
Intimate Compositions 