On making things harder than they need to be.
My experience in my Poetry Writing class is an interesting one. I think the instructor speaks too much, leaving his aesthetic principles as the ones most dominantly expressed and I don’t think that’s a good thing. Poetry is (imo, of course) the most subjective art form and I’m not sure that capacity to avoid effective categorization is a trait graduate programs select for. The MFA program seems to grab people (and I’ve heard this about other programs, too) that have their theory, their pet idea on how it should work. Perhaps that single-mindedness or focus is an important trait in maintaining self-identity in a stressful, academic environment. Or I’m just rambling because I’m tired (a very likely possibility).
This week, we had to write a poem that we either blank verse, a sonnet, a ballad, or a syllabic poem. (This on the heels of my not well-received-by-the-instructor-villanelle of last week! No more meter, please!) I originally intended to do a sonnet, but my iambic pentameter switch is on the frits, so I ended up writing a syllabic (easier counting) which started out as a four syllable phrase (”wine-dark satin”) but grew into what is for me a long poem. I’m not sure if I’ll turn it in or if I will scrounge up another piece within the next 24 hours, but, for your reading enjoyment:
Hotel Room in Tokyo After a Friend’s Wedding
You and I, drunk on plum wine,
with these two, lush, cherry trees
blossoming in think lacquer
on the doors of the armoire,
bridesmaid’s dress previously
kissed down the curve of your back
then carelessly pooled, waved like
a sea of wine-dark satin,
are perched, giggling, on the bed.
The first empty bottle spins,
leaving maroon-on-white stains,
unerringly finding you,
lips already pursed, waiting.
A brief moment of laughter,
then I let my tongue find yours.
Our hands eagerly caress
and with that sweet skin-on-skin
we forget the wine, the stains,
and the two, lush, cherry trees
and tangle ourselves in sheets.
After, as you gently sleep,
I gather and hang your dress,
collect your bra and panties
and your carefully dyed shoes
in a neat, burgundy pile
on the top of the dresser,
then slide beside you in bed.
You rouse for a moment, smile,
and one more kiss in the dark.
Morning finds us intertwined,
woken by the sound of trains,
flush with the awareness of
expensive sheets and close flesh.
Our lovemaking is gentle,
a placid tide of kisses
and slow-built satisfaction.
It is not absence, but this
forever-in-a-moment
that engenders fondness.
Your walk has a languid heat
as you go start the shower.
A quick glance at the menu
reveals “English Muffin” between
the Kanji for “Plain Waffle,”
and for “Korean Breakfast.”
I decide to wait for lunch,
then head into the shower
where, amid the steam and the
bubbles, we do manage to
shower in-between kisses.
Later, fully dressed, we go
to enjoy the city’s life,
holding hands as we wait for
the downtown train to arrive.
Note: I’ve never been to Japan, but I would like to go, particularly to Kyoto when the Cherry Blossom trees are blooming. It looks quite beautiful.