I follow the poets...

I follow your words across the page,
jumping greedily ahead,
losing my place in the rush to know the ending,
and going back, guiltily,
to read what I've skipped in haste.

Phrases painstakingly crafted
to elicit a particular emotion -
such a quiet, unassuming figure...
who would guess you hold such
power over others?

Ideas.  Stories.  Questions.
Complaints and fierce wonderings --
This is how we share
the human condition...
which may well be the meaning of life.

I hold the book in my hands,
my body heat warming the cover,
bring it towards my face,
smell the paper and ink,
inhale the perfume of poetry.

I follow your words,
and in that simple, dedicated act,
I'm really following you.

-Brigit Delaney



It's been a few weeks since I shared my love of a particular "sexy" writer.  So, today...I have two...two, whom, for some reason rose to the level of my consciousness.

The first is Claude McKay...a writer well-known for his respected involvement in the Harlem Renaissance.  Many years ago, I think maybe even in high-school or early in college, I was working on an assignment that required me to research a poet from a provided list.  I was familiar with most of the names, so, intentionally, I chose one of the few I had never heard.  Through the course of my study, I came across the following poem - which instantly earned a place in my mental book of favorite poems:

THE HARLEM DANCER
by: Claude McKay (1890-1948)

PPLAUDING youths laughed with young prostitutes

And watched her perfect, half-clothed body sway;

Her voice was like the sound of blended flutes

Blown by black players upon a picnic day.

She sang and danced on gracefully and calm,

The light gauze hanging loose about her form;

To me she seemed a proudly-swaying palm

Grown lovelier for passing through a storm.

Upon her swarthy neck black, shiny curls

Profusely fell; and, tossing coins in praise,

The wine-flushed, bold-eyed boys, and even the girls,

Devoured her with their eager, passionate gaze;

But, looking at her falsely-smiling face

I knew her self was not in that strange place.












And another favorite, mainly because his complete, and intentional, disregard for the rules of written English confound me.  Some of e.e. cummings' poems confuse the hell out of me - make no sense whatsoever...but others...oh, yes, others make me dizzy with admiration - here are a few of my favorites:




"l(a"




l(a

le

af

fa

ll

s)

one

l

iness

The unbelievably perfect simplicity of this poem - and the ingenious, innovative way that the message is presented...make my geeky thighs a little sweaty.





somewhere i have never travelled 

by e. e. cummings




somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond

any experience, your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility: whose texture

compels me with the colour of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens; only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands











This has been a Wicked Wednesday post.  To see who else is "wicked" this Wednesday...please click 





HERE.