Passion Me Weird

Huye luna, luna, luna.
Si vinieran los gitanos,
harían con tu corazón
collares y anillos blancos.
~ Federico García Lorca

(an English translation, by moi)
Run away moon, moon, moon.
If the gypsies were to come,
they would make of your heart
white necklaces and rings.

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In his eyes, uncertainty and old hurts fight to murder want. I touch him with words, let language lick the startled curve of his lower lip, taste sun and moon in grape juice made spirits by drum and dance… And I whisper, “Passion me weird. Relax in me.”

He runs, runs, runs from me, screaming of storms and heart rings… then returns (mind-spooked but smiling), extending a cautious fingertip towards the dark that feeds my pen, adding living red to my blackest ink. He takes our story in his mouth, and his thoughts spell, What about my storm and your weird, our pandemonium?

I guide his inked finger into my heart, ask him to write himself in me… And I whisper, “Without your storm, my strange is lost. Can’t you feel it? For you, (my love of loves, is) my imagination and dreams, my unseen desires and black lace, the Me only You read.”

wet petals,
wined in fantasies
of summer

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the wee notes…
– Before I grew to love poetry, I had already fallen for Federico García Lorca’s writing. If you’ve never read Romancero gitano, La casa de Bernarda Alba, or Bodas de sangre (Gypsy Ballads, The House of Bernarda Alba, or Blood Weddings), I invite you to give them a go. You might fall, too… or, at least, stumble into a wondrous world of words.
– This poem swallowed five of my visual poem bits. See them on Instagram (here, here, here, here, here). I love crafting wholes out of pieces, writing things where they belong.
– Linked to Poets United ~ Poetry Pantry 368

I Am Found

I’ve been poetizing at the beach. There’s something about sun and sand and waves that touches the skin and makes the soul happier. The ocean has been too cold for swimming, but perfectly hot for poetry and wild dreams made of want and ink (and magnets *cough*).

This wee jar carries magnetized words
from Poe and Freud—

dark fun with psychology in it *giggles*.

I emptied the jar in my hat,
touched the words…
and let them touch me back.

The words aligned themselves into a poem bit:
“Without your storm, my strange is lost.”
I know, my sweet darlings! I thought at them.

At some point, I lost the word “lost”,
and then found it lounging with another treasure.
Birds of a feather, I tell you.

After poetizing, I leaned back, welcomed the kiss of the sun,
got drunk in Nature’s warmth,
conjured some of my favorite words to mind…
and the rest was bliss,
word-bliss waiting to be inked into poetry.

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a wee note…
– To those of you who have asked about the part of New York I’m currently in, well… I’m not. I have been dancing around the San Juan Islands, kissing words right on the mouth, twirling under sun and moon, rejoicing in Nature’s treasures, delighting in the gift of being me.  When I get home, I’ll write a yummy post about the trip.