Poem beginning with an improvisation on Basho
If you would learn of the pine go to the oak.
O the gorgeous peacock eyes of Klimt’s flowing gown in “The Kiss”! Different from any gown, and the kiss, different from the sloppy-lipped smooches of most men – missing her lips.
Not that the girl appears to mind.
Dissonance, dissonance, always la dissonance!
wind shaping curlews’ cries—
A jangling of bells: blues, pinks, yellows, and—yes—grayish-blacks of today’s sunrise. I’d been dreaming of Klimt’s women gliding in those amazing gowns over the sea, their hair fastened by silver clasps of stars: from different constellations, of course!
Not long ago I spent an entire Sunday morning thinking of the women I’ve loved—all of them different: different looks, personalities, backgrounds. Two of them shared the same first name; other than that—
patch of sky
So what happens when you bend or break the rules of dissonance? How many of us know someone who absconded from a marriage, only to marry the same person all over again?
Different rivers . . . different moons. . . And yet, for rivers, clouds, moons, leaves—and my poems of winter—I still feel that the point where we need to pitch our beings is the point of no return.
sea or sky