To Joshua

I posted a fragment of this poem I wrote on my FB page and it received a lot of comments so I thought I'd post it in it's entirety here with the one I imitated from Sappho. Sappho was a Greek poet in the 6th Century, the only women poet. She was mostly famous for her love poems to other women. (Remember in Greece everyone was considered bi-sexual.) Please tell me what you think! A poet loves criticism! :)

To Joshua

I loved you, Joshua, then and still,
from when I was yet of age to date,
especially a man – an older man,
even one such as you, whom my family loved.

*

Do you remember the night I wore the red dress?

*

It was, you say, the night you fell in love with me,
watching me cross the living room in my gown,
my hair curled and half undone, our eyes met
and I paused there, tucking a strand behind my ear

only for it to spring loose again before
I stepped the next few feet into the hall, out of sight.

There have been several moments (more than I
can count, for sure), when you’ve crossed in front

of me, shirtless, and I have no words, no voice,
as I watch you pull clothes on, covering muscle.

The room surrounding us didn’t exist then,
no walls, no floors, no breath.

*

I ask all the Gods, on every day we spend together,
to be pregnant with time in a miniscule hourglass.

*

I begged with them: I desire.

*

Someone, I tell you, will remember our love,
even in another time.


An imitation of Sappho’s Six Fragments for Atthis


...Now here's Sappho's poem that I used the structure of...

Six Fragments for Atthis (Translated by Sherod Santos)

I loved you, Atthis, years ago,
when my youth was still all flowers
and sighs, and you - you seemed to me
such a small ungainly girl

*

Can you forget what happened before?

*

If so, then I'll remind you how, while lying
beside me, you wove a garland of crocuses
which I then braided into strands of your hair.
And once, when you'd plaited a double necklace

from a hundred blooms, I tied it around
the swanning, sun-licked ring of your neck.

And on more than one occasion (there were two
of them, to be exact), while I looked on, too

silent with adoration to say your name,
you glazed your breasts and arms with oil.

No holy place existed without us then,
no woodland, no dance, no sound.

*

Beyond all hope, I prayed those timeless
days we spend might be made twice as long.

*

I prayed one word: I want.

*

Someone, I tell you, will remember us,
even in another time.

Birdhouse Thoughts

In the backyard, on an old Oak tree, there is a small wooden birdhouse.
It isn’t painted, but the Sparrow family doesn’t seem to mind.
I watch them through an upstairs window, like a nosey neighbor
with my breath on the glass. I crack it an inch
to hear them sing to each other, chirping quietly back and forth,
often in short melodies.

The sound reminds me of being newly twitter pated, of May,
of a walk together as the sun was setting behind us amongst the pines,
of dinner made while the radio played in the background,
tangled up in our laughter, much like the brown bird’s calls.

I feel your arms come around my waist as you sneak up behind me
to join in the spying. We stand and watch a moment
as the humble creatures gather twigs and leaves
from the grass inside the fence to bring to their recently acquired home.

The hands that built that birdhouse are the same strong hands
that hold me close each night, playing a game of Big Spoon, Little Spoon.
Those calloused palms and fingers become mellow when intertwined with mine,
crafty to fix a leak under the sink, playful when you wrestle with the dogs,
calculated to apply a band aid to a nephew’s knee, or desperate, if animal instinct is aroused.

Before I can catch you, you rip me from my thoughts
by lifting a forefinger and tapping on the pane.
The Sparrow pair pauses in song and movement before flying back to their space,
one you created.