A Senryū for My Paramour

“Let’s go back to the edge of [the] forest and name the paramours who led us to write… Write about sex, sexualized experience, sexless burning, the kiss of strange winds, the sexiness of death. Write about the arrow’s sheer barb. Or whatever else the paramour might mean to you—say, the strange wood we enter starting the next poem.” These are the words of Brendan MacOdrum, on this week’s Sunday Mini-Challenge: The Paramour, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. I can say nothing but “Yes!” to such a call. So here is my bit:

“A Senryū for My Paramour”

He kisses secret places in the inside of my bones… and adds teeth. His caresses come with nail. When his touch arches my back and his wild thrusts make me gasp, he digs deeper… deeper… I stop him—before his chronic lust can scratch unhealable marks on my soul.

I no longer tell him to stop, just write him hard on foot and back, feeding him tales and poesy… until we both get what we want… or, what we can.

stroking flesh and bone,
my Poesy Paramour
writes off constant hurts

.
a wee note: I’m sure you noticed that the poem is actually a haibun. However, my Poesy Paramour and I are not in such good terms at the moment. So his bastard self can only have the senryū. Yes, the prose is mine, you greedy pain in the neck… and back… and hip… and gut…

Escape, by Yvonne Palermo
“Escape”, by Yvonne Palermo
(I’ve shared this piece before, but every time I read the artist’s words about the painting, I feel the need to re-share: “Escape is a portrayal of my inner person. The figure depicted represents my ability to let go and accept my constant state of pain in order to continue existing.”)
via

With Soil, Sweat and Grit

The hike puts a pant in our hearts, leaves us with soil, sweat, and grit on bits of skin few hands can publicly reach without blushing a little. My soles and toes sizzle when I plant them unshod on moist soil. My lips (with a wicked old grin) sigh the delight covering the flesh of my feet. My hiking buddy barks at a squirrel that pays him no mind.

Before the sun can twilight the tips of treetops, I pitch our tent. Firewood isn’t difficult to find—my tree sisters don’t mind sharing their dead bones with a soul who cares for their green.

With shelter and grub set for the night, I peel off my threads and run skyclad for a dip. My pup jumps into the stream first (bark and splash, bark and splash). The river is cleansing bliss. It removes dirt, too, so I scrub myself and the pup. Too soon, my pup strolls away yawning… leaving me to swim alone and to grin at the woods on my own.

dirt coated
white pup in the woods,
lies in shame

linked to dVerse (Haibun Monday, 8)
and
the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Tuesday Platform)

Puppy Covered in Dirt