As I itch on my bed, I have been writing and rewriting three recent poems that I wrote, revised or took to the next level of expression in the past month. This is my Thanksgiving gift with nothing bad about nothing and the true gratitude for my creative talents and the gift of this rare human birth. So here we go, and thank you for taking the time to read and comment if you are so moved or please ask me any questions that you might have. In any case, please enjoy... John
Three Poems by John Lavitt (November 24, 2011)
Three Poems by John Lavitt (November 24, 2011)
shedding ashes
she looks like a hot woman drinking,
she becomes a little girl weeping,
so young, still the shadows of a child,
lurching through vertigo, shedding ashes.
if you gaze gently into her eyes,
if you listen softly as she speaks,
a sudden smile, sweet and surprised,
emerges. there is a flower veiled,
beyond the shards of animal memory,
no exit possible, the fondle lurking,
cries muffled, her home a wicked altar,
so much innocence sacrificed so soon.
enough diagnosis to make you feel better;
didn’t you once boast of life preservers?
but what can i do? this is just in passing.
what medicine of earth and sky?
how many need a vision possible,
not visionary, no light show from heaven,
but a modest map of a future rendered
where each step taken leads.
if she beholds a path leading,
a vision of a woman possible,
her shattering less than a shadow,
a witness to the morning sun.
the secrets of each muse
who could paint such angry beauty?
not quite angry and definitely not bitter,
but exacting, dramatic and classical;
this woman sings of Europe before the fall.
Modigliani releases the flow of such softness,
his brush baring the aristocracy of beauty,
long and languorous, a sexual calm in color,
but blunting the elemental edges of this woman.
a strange mixture expressed in dichotomy;
a mix of a sunset stroll in the Mediterranean
with cigarette smoke rising in Bohemian shadows.
she cannot be captured without the chains.
the painter required, of course, Egon Schiele;
each stark line reveals her sexuality radiant,
battling against death, against cages respectable.
her truth exposed, the lovely flaws of a girl lost.
such beauty caught can never truly convey
three dimensions, the dark corners and closed drawers,
all she fears and all she loves: there are certain dreams,
the secrets of each muse the artist can never betray.
never mine alone
in the bright ambition of the waking hour,
there awakes a certain inclination, a need
to capture the world with the art of words.
this is immortality, my name carved in stone,
or just one more simulation of the snickering past;
so many have walked these cornerstones before,
each writer dancing in the whirl of unique discovery.
i believed in my significance. this is my comfort zone.
yes, i have written revolutionary poems before,
when i was younger, when i was young,
everything appeared to be the very first:
i was raising the curtain of the world!
repeated postures, the steps of an antiquated dance
where each poem sings of next year’s revolution.
but if i have never in truth been the original voice,
what is the point of scratching out these copies?
beyond today's survival, the breath of expression is sacred.
yes, this primal path not cut by the soles of my feet.
other footsteps trodden, fossilized imprints of the greats,
but each new step taken is a wondrous mystery.
the critics braying; thousands of greater poets past,
the bold first step long forgotten in ash and dust.
no, my friends, this graven path was never mine alone.
countless steps taken before, countless to come.
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