When it's just my luck, it is so! -- to leave late having the roads all to myself and the music in my head.
Or when the fever breaks, I crave bread and butter, making it to the kitchen and seeing all that yellow.
And surely when I enter her, losing the time and thinking, dazed by eternity, I've always seen you again.
yellow is the light,the sun, the asiatic wisdom,yellow are the flowers in accordance with Van Gogh, yellow are the stars fading into the sky, yellow should be my favourite colour if i hadn't the blue...
ReplyDeleteI love your slices of life. They seem so loose and effortless. "And surely when I enter her" is such an erotic little line.
ReplyDeleteTF, the unexpected build up to the last line was sublime and achingly beautiful.
ReplyDeleteWow...this is hot. It's erotic. It's solitary. It's silence. Somehow, this poem melds perfectly with the Evans piece you've posted: Every note he plays is a lyric, like the one that must have been in your head for "Those Moments".
ReplyDeleteRick
powerful words, great build up - nice mixture :)
ReplyDeletethanks for visiting my place
cheers
orfeenix,
ReplyDeleteI do very much like your assemblage, its own poetic punch! They say yellow is the color that most quickly attracts the eye. This Rothko image (in its small digital way) handles the 'yellow' with some of his great nuance.
Trulyfool
Tess,
ReplyDeleteI can only take slices of life. When I go for the whole enchilada I get too full.
The casualness of the phrase you point out tries to contain the eroticism, put a tight ceiling on it, ignore it. (Otherwise, its too easy to go overboard).
But, golly, such experience is hard to ignore.
TFool
Cher,
ReplyDeleteI didn't know to expect it either. The paradoxical flavor of the always/again clash of adverbs came early, but I didn't know what to do with it: it needed context.
Then: sex. But not just the ho-hum boy meets girl and "it's real", but somehow imbalance the situation so that its reality might suggestively emerge.
The "dazed by eternity" did it, for me. The stun of love, the loss of self in meeting up with the other, the sense (I like to think of it as reality -- oblige me) that something more than just an organic reproductive impulse is occurring -- once whacked over the head by that 2 X 4, finito.
Thank you for 'getting it'!
TF
Rick,
ReplyDeleteI may have had half-an-idea of letting the Evans 'work' with the poem. For a musician solidly 'jazz' in framework, he's unimpeachably lyrical. If anything I write does accord with his music, I'm humbled.
Here's the odd thing. I can't read or write with any success at all if music plays. The verbal material must have an aural connection in my head -- I must be one of those 'slow' readers who subvocalizes thrice over.
And music for me is, as you make the connection, a solitary event that I deliberately choose during times when silence earns its way to be broken.
I do play music -- Evans's not least -- when I "leave late having the roads to myself".
Thank you for the enthusiastic response!
Trulyf
Gabriela,
ReplyDeleteWelcome here! And thank you for dealing with my porridge of images. I invite you to extract what you find agreeable and enjoy it.
Moreover, I'm now very glad to have a connection with La Plata, and will visit you regularly.
Trulyfool