As I begin a new chapter in my life with this blog, I hope you will enjoy reading the short stories, poems, and other writings that I post. This – the first poem I post to this blog – was inspired by the language and imagery of the Song of Songs, highlighting my interest in incorporating myth, legend, and languages into my writings.
My Love is a Poet
I.
My love, because he is a poet who speaks in tongues, has left the city.
He stood on the corner and preached a sermon,
and when they heard that he was beginning to pass
into speech they could not understand, they beat him
and threw him out, there on the corner of sixty-fifth and tenth,
and his voice was stilled.
It is my love whom they have killed.
II.
I do not know if he is coming or if he is gone.
He left his white shirt on the bed, that I had washed
for him and pressed. If he were coming
he would be coming for the shirt.
If he were going
and the shirt remained behind
this would mean, I guess,
he did not need the shirt
that I had washed for him, and pressed.
He left his white shirt on the bed.
I do not know if he is coming or if he is gone.
III.
The child was neither my child nor his, but ours.
His eyes were green, but his tongue was fire.
He was as tall as my beloved, but our love was higher.
The child was neither my child nor his, but ours.
IV.
I called but he did not come.
I have forgotten the light of the sun.
Will he return by the moon of the night?
If he returns at the dawn of the day,
he shall go never more not now not then
away from me, nor ever again.
I called but he did not hear.
V.
There is a blight upon the tree that grew last year.
It died in the winter, in the sleep of the snow.
When it will bloom again, I do not know.
Until my love comes again it will never be spring.
Let my love come again, and our love we will sing.
Scribo Scribere 
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