A mac between two windows

Restored when you revisit -
refreshed the pane stares back at you.

Through the looking glass
what once felt a bittersweet torture -
the years apart -
has become
a lopsided work of art.

The ghosts have incapacitated me

Why is it that the ghosts of our past haunt us even after a decade is old?
And thus, veiled in allusions and metaphors and sorry songs,
Mourning wracks and wrecks the soul.
No names cross my lips, but the story is told.

the undergraduate

a poem for two

for memories' sake inhale

sweet quince and milk chocolate 

roughly, stubbled cheek on mine

the nighttime effervesces 

an aged, brittle me-ss morphs into you-ngness

a fearful asymmetry
burning bright 

it heats the night

a fine balance

to enwrap ourselves as one

only with one eye on the door

one ear on the driveway 

adrenalin pumping 

surreptitiousness 

into pleasure - 

making
half-smiles

and muffled noises

redouble 

inward esctasy.

I was young once

you are young now 

is what my hands tell me

they go places long forgotten 

have I never loved before?

they never knew my hands before

they just needed feather dustin'

faded jeans and young hands

loosen old knots and loosed love

while time ticks on

embers die off

leaving the unbearable cold deadweight of duty

a whiff of quince and 

the scent of Cacharel

has a hot headiness of its own

to be enjoyed
only with another eye on the door

another ear on the driveway

adrenalin pumping 

blood rushing

into pleasure - 

making
half-smiles

and muffled noises

redouble

unforgotten

Caught dancing en arabesque, first and last

Today I was talking with a friend and it got me revisiting Carla Bruni, who IMHO, has the sexiest voice ever, when she sings in French (don't even get me started on L'excessive). I've been almost reluctant to listen to her English songs for fear of ruining her impossibly sexy appeal. But I had iTunes on shuffle, and realised that the song titles, and the lyrics were oddly familiar...

Googling worked wonders to discover that...she was singing some of my favourite poets! Serendipity ftw!

At Last the Secret is Out

W.H. Auden

At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end,
the delicius story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend;
over the tea-cups and into the square the tongues has its desire;
still waters run deep, my dear, there's never smoke without fire.

Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links,
behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,
under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh
there is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.

For the clear voice suddently singing, high up in the convent wall,
the scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall,
the croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
there is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.

Those Dancing Days Are Gone

W.B. Yeats

Come, let me sing into your ear;
Those dancing days are gone,
All that silk and satin gear;
Crouch upon a stone,
Wrapping that foul body up
In as foul a rag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup.
The moon in a silver bag.

Curse as you may I sing it through;
What matter if the knave
That the most could pleasure you,
The children that he gave,
Are somewhere sleeping like a top
Under a marble flag?
I carry the sun in a golden cup.
The moon in a silver bag.

I thought it out this very day.
Noon upon the clock,
A man may put pretence away
Who leans upon a stick,
May sing, and sing until he drop,
Whether to maid or hag:
I carry the sun in a golden cup,
The moon in a silver bag.