beautiful women learn
not to speak of it
the way the climate changes
when they enter the room
the way men
square their shoulders
like mountains
favored by the sun
and rivals glower grey
like lower slopes
threatened by rain
beautiful women
learn not to speak of it
the breeze they stir
as doors open
eyes lift
beautiful
women learn
not to speak of it
not of this
and then
not of the moment
(time's motion incorruptible)
when she enters
and leaves the room
unchanged
Written on the occasion of my beautiful Grama's 88th birthday. The image is a (very poor) cameraphone shot of a pastel portrait that my grandfather made of my grandmother when they were dating.
5 comments:
Powerful poem...I suspect the opening line shall stay in my head for more than a few days... In fact, it sounds like the first line of some, amazingly intense and all consuming autobiography...
"Beautiful women learn not to speak of it...." of course then the book would proceed to tell all..
Oh I love this poem! It's very melodic and even hypnotic. I know it's corny, but I love to rhyme and it really is! I love the picture too! : )
So, D., I have to know: Does EVERYONE in your family tree have an artistic bent? It seems so. How lucky to be hanging on a branch with so many thinkers and feelers and doers.
thanks, guys -- so wonderful to receive comments like this. :)
and anniemcq: I'm biased, but I think I got awfully lucky with my tribe.
Your grandma really is beautiful. That image is fabulous!
this poem is one of your best
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