Poem: Scripture of Skin

love%20of%20the%20spirit

To leave you, is to grieve you –

But, to be with you, is to be relieved by

You – to feel all of my sufferings, temporarily

Allayed, until, again, you flit away.

When I look into your eyes, those thunderbolts

Of blue cascade through me with

Cerulean majesty – worlds of which I

Never dreamed, rain down upon me;

I wash myself in the verdure of these

Spontaneous realms, these doorways that

You open. I awaken on verdant planets –

But we are not the sole inhabitants; for, as

We merge, a bevy of bead-like universes

Begins to converge – and I suddenly find a

Reason; a logic that has hitherto avoided

Me. Oh, faery divine! Plucked from a tear

I wept, in the hope that you might one day

Exist –

And what a wonderful existence it!

You are the flowing theme that brings

Together the jumble of my days – the leitmotif,

That makes me weep, when you are temporarily

Un-near to me. I do not mean to tease myself

With erotic fantasies – all I need to think about

Is your voice; to hear you speak: your eloquence

Is the oar that steers me through the black

Sludge of confusion; to hear you discourse

On any subject, is to rival even the

Most plangent of symphonies – I do

Not need to dwell on concupiscent

Deeds; my nectar is found in the

Flowery dream of a lifetime’s worth

Of conversations with you:

Some poetic, impassioned, pensive,

Romantic, argumentative, didactic –

Some conciliatory, or accusatory – it

Does not matter what you say to me!

Just, please, keep talking to me! Even

If you scream at me with the serenade of

Your silence, which is every bit as eloquent

As the words your speak – just, please, keep

Talking to me! Festoon me in your words

Golden – your words of dreams, of gods, of

Fears, or sorrows – words that borrow directly

From the lexicon of the most celestial chapters,

Of a book I’ve never found, but always longed to

Read:

“In the beginning, there was your Word. And

Your Word was Love. And your Word was God!” –

With those words, my world was made anew;

With every syllable that you speak, whole

Continents from your lips leak – planets

Are born every time you yawn – and

When you let the space hang sweet, like the

Dark pools that bathe the unfinished interstices

Between every disconnected star – those are

The Sweetest Times of Them All!

I wish I could bottle your silence, and carry

It with me, always, like a perfume; a

Love potion; a lucky charm – your silence

Makes the birds sing sweeter; the candles

Flicker brighter; your silence pries open

Forbidden horizons, and causes leaves to fall

From the boughs of willow trees, at exactly the

Right moment. You are autumn, the shifting of the

Seasons; the rainbow-haired, pagan goddess, who

Knows exactly when a light ripple should interrupt

The timeless placidity, of a motionless, sky-

Loving lake – casting our minds back,

To the time, we both heard –

The Very First Sound.

II.

Do you remember when we heard

The very first sound? We were together –

Though we weren’t aware of it at the

Time. We were both enwrapped in one

Another – swaddled in embryonic timelessness;

A blanket of darkness, that knew

No creation – no movement. In

That perfect stillness, we gestated

Together, lovingly entwined in one

Another’s souls, waiting for our time

To arrive . . .

And then, suddenly . . . Colour!

A whole spectrum unveiled itself

Before us, and we gasped, we

Screamed, we cried! How could

This happen? What could these

Strange portents be? Could it

Be the first eruptions of a

Childhood, of which we have

No conception? At first, we

Were humbled, bedevilled,

Inspired – then those new hues

Conspired to seduce us – and we

Became aware of colours, not

Just as absence of non-colour; but

As something we could uniquely perceive.

It was at this moment that we

Looked at one another – and we

Recognized our other halves as

Resplendent beings in their own right.

I looked at you, and you looked

At me – and the power in that

Moment was so immense, that we

Did not know whether to rave, scream,

Cleave to one another in a haunting

Of Passion, or run – far,

Far away

III.

As it happened, we did all

Of these things and more – the pistol

Was fired, and we gambolled into an

Arena of infinite possibilities. And, thinking

Of such things, I wonder how the ink of my

Inspiration could ever run dry again? All

I need to do is look at your face, and those

Possibilities twinkle so inspiringly, so invitingly,

So chaotically before me, that I find myself

Chasing after every last one, in a rich cacophony

Of self-multiplication, that stretches to extraneous

Limits.

IV.

So, I will chase them all:

I will chase the sun, the moon,

The leaf that floats round the bend

Of a river, that I will never see

Again. What of the birds?

Christ said ‘Consider the birds’ – well,

I have considered them thusly, in their

Myriad flutterings; in the furtive flight

Of a cormorant – in the plaintive cooing

Of a dove – the reckless laughter of the

Herring gull – the stately solitude of a

Heron – the implacable whiteness of a

Swan – the ridiculousness of a gaggle

Of geese – the beautiful frenzy of a

Hummingbird’s wings; or the far-off

Croak of a raven, so lonesome, so

Wise, so mild – in each of these, I

Discover, the piece of a puzzle, that

Sings to me in argent melodies, to

Paint a picture of your infinite

Face.

V.

And that is a picture I have

Studied, adored, and inspected

Intensely – a picture that is hung

And framed in my every thought.

And, as I write these words, I am

So devoured by the love I feel

For you, that I am barely conscious

That I am writing them – and I

Find them flowing out of my pen

As fast as a flame eats up the wick

Of a lit piece of dynamite.

VI.

But, what a ridiculous dance this

Is between poet and muse! But –

What have I to lose? My days

Were wasted before you, clothed

In the ashes of endless preparation –

Now, I have something to praise, to

Worship, to beseech, to inspire! In

Taking up you, I feel I have taken

Up a new religion – that you are

Something I must preach about –

A Gospel of Beauty I must convert

The World to:

“Come and behold! For I have

Seen the light! And that light

Has frozen its flame into the

Unendurable form of a beautiful

Sylph, whose skin is more sacred

Than any scripture.” Oh, that I could

Spend a life-time studying that book!

I would furnish it with commentary

After commentary – and I would

Annotate it wherever I could, with

Markings of teeth and tongue. I

Hear you in the whisper of the wind;

And the susurration of leaves in the

Aspen trees. And from that tree, I

Hope to carve a canoe, that will

Sail me into the typhoon of your

Future.

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