Wednesday, July 30, 2014


: Of Hope III
when it’s all done
and the white foam pours forth
you’ll be telling me
that song we drew when
the grass was freshly mown
was embroidered into
your mother’s skirt.

I will turn
and absorb your face
like it was the last kite of summer
and together we will drip
like old wounds
at the back of the throat.
There will be nothing that night
but the bees that circled our heads
and a sigh that congealed
with a dream.

(Originally posted on February 25, 2005)


Anonymous said...

I did not get it!

Now this might sound, well, silly, like when Chirine asked me what Waiting for Godot’s point was, but I have always somehow been able to find the eye of your ever-turning poems and then, well, to look your poems in the eye. I did not find the eye here.

Three images I liked; that of the freshly mown grass, that of the last kite of summer (this one really did it. J’ai trop bien aimé), and that of the bees circling your heads. This last one, I do not know why (probably due to the resulting halo imagery) set me musing over Da Vinci’s “Last Supper,” an effect which I liked.

But still, I felt a certain aloofness to your poem, perhaps a certain lack of direction.

Ton frère Ahmad

Maldoror said...

Beautiful. Genuine and absorbing!

katy said...

"that song we drew when
the grass was freshly mown"

mowed transformed into mown as if the grass itself were eeking with pleasure.

i'm giving out gold stars today, and you get two.