She called upon invisible Saints
to testify to the love in her heart,
so full of love for herself
yet holding all of the weightless world;
her bosom swollen
like lactating breasts of Africa
called from so many lost babes
and voices of ages stirred her body.
After the honey of summer-
the bees made so little -
but the bees were fewer, and
the honey was sweet,
it clung to lips and tongues
dripped slowly and held the
light of the sun; like the cool touch
of her skin, imbibed with amber,
and when I kissed her skin
I became drunk with love.
And the Sun
made my head buzz like a bee
needing flower kisses
to make honey to dazzle the Sun
and have it stay long
for September is cruel, it is
when summer is pulled away;
I hear its quiet scream
and Africa too hears the stir to her body
and she swells again; with her feet in the
turbulent joining of seas and her head
near the cradle of life,
oh… Africa.
Can you save us now…
can you look deep within your heart
and find the days before Eden fell,
before the first hand was raised against,
first innocent heart was stolen
before freedom became a passing tense
has the womb abandoned the world
so that we are finally old;
a useless woman
she said to her mirror; I stood at her back
begging for her love;
a useless woman she said again, for
September churned deep within her.
The yawning wide expanse
of jungle and plains consumed the heat
and held it for the night; when hunger crawled
on growling ground as passions for conquest,
eyes glowed in low hanging branches…
jungles of neon glares, blinking mascara
lips shone like stars all agleam
and bodies had a heavenly sway
coasting galaxies like Lennox and
West Broadway; or Amsterdam
where the rumble underground
met the clacking sounds
swishing whoosh of leather
on the loose and the air
was filled with faux fragrance
and rumors of France
printed on patches
made in Chine and chintz,
and love was on most corners.
Still, elephants walked in darkness
as they would, fences were not
long for the night belonged to heavy pods
and fences to the mud, and hopes
for harvests were left to second
guesses; the hunger of the trees
filled the night air… nothing slept
and sleep was forgotten,
swollen stomachs growling night
crying babes and swollen Africa.
Invisible Saints hid beneath
leather and cashmere, red and black
sacrifice, and hunger was everywhere
in sight and smoky summer air;
September calls alms for a blessed city night.
And her testimony was heard on walls
and ceilings, as night fell like
heavy Savannah air. No one slept,
for sleep was forgotten.
In a list
A contest entry
- Commitment Challenge #8 - Invitation Only by CarolDesjarlais.
2000 points, ended August 18, 2008, 3 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
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Wow. I honestly don't know what to say. I don't think there is words for this piece, honestly.
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wow! very very nice. a very different peteskid from what i can recall. a maturation....by no means am i qualified to say so (lol) but i will, anyways.
really enjoyed the read. could feel the "september" while reading. congrats on gold..deserving!
blu
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I have come back to this poem more than once in hopes of saying something of value. But it has been said. You read a poem that encompasses so many images, issues, times, emotions, potential, waste... and on and on, and it seems silly to comment. The image that sticks with me the most was the woman at the mirror, given up, not realizing she had the very thing she feared she had lost....the implications of such a picture... so much meaning in every line. The night is short, and I will stop for now, but this is just such a substantial piece. Wow.
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Just amazing PK...such a winner this one is....
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PK, may I have permission to add this to the Pack of Poets on my domain at shewolfnative2.com as my favorite poem of the week..nevermind that it is my favorite poem of the yer, the decade.....the century.....
Please let me know...I woudl be honored to have it grace my site. -
This....this....is absolute perfect poetry written by a perfected poetic hand....there are no words...but I willl absoltuely come back to this time and time and time again....the wisdom is ancient, demanding, known.........
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wow, this is just intense - a lot to absorb here. Talk about commitment...
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I think this might be my favourite poem of your large collection. You have the images blended in such a way, that I could see references of an ancient time reflected in modern time. Borders joined under one single aspect.
Yet, the great differences in way of living (to some way of surviving) shout throughout the lines here.
That line 'before freedom became a passing tense', oh boy, what a thought! Passing tense, and past tense, memories...
One of your most excellent work, this poem!
Congratulations Howard with this one
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