She is nipples and need,
Neruda, she is flowers and little deaths
and your river born in the Chilean Cordilleras
is no more or less than her creek
born in the Trinity Alps. 
They are waters from latitudes
as strange to one another as you, Pablo,
to Lynn,
who was born the year you
turned forty-three.  She is now
sixty-two.  Pablo, Pablo.  She wears
your words in the froth of her skirts,
in the pink dawns of her thighs
where your music rubs days
into delights of darkness,
enters a womb of papaya and pomegranate,
of seeds ripened and scattered and rising,
and where these waters come
there is salt and there is beginning. 

There is ending too. 
Memory, alive as coyote
with no pheasant or vole to grip
with hungry teeth,   
leaves her sere, this bone
of past days,
bleached as a skull 
where water has been, until
she dreams the long tremulous windings
of your breath, Pablo, in her hair.

Then, what is inside softens and swells,
extends and ripens like plums fallen
with bright, heavy fleshing
to split and glisten,
to feed lemon bees, apricot wasps –
and they eat
as if no feast will again open for them
and glut them with such sweetness
bite by bite by ripened plum.
Branches lighten
and the heart of the tree
is an amber bead pulsating
through the rings.

For this reason she wears your words, Pablo, 
in the green days of dying and age,
the scent of static waters too close,
where moss hides the mirror
of sky from itself
and she will be soft sediment
pillowed on bedrock
without current above,
growing into all that has ever been
from her own bones.

But life breathes
moist from your Chilean lips, Pablo,
even across the miles of death,
your kisses, your tongue, Pablo,
between and upon her breasts,
the quickening
of her heart like a ship’s bell on a rocking sea,
the ache she will satisfy
when you come to her
out of jasmine,
out of horizons quivering gold.

Who will care
that she is learning to smile
under water, laughing
beneath the snow melt?
Her flow will take her
to buoyant salt
and the river
from the Cordilleras will bring you, Pablo,
to meet; translucent hands
will touch.

The sea is an orgasm
coming and coming and coming,
smoothing the broken glass of what has been
into jewels of nuance and grain,
shadow and light.
The hinged mussel opens,
releases its succulent self,
as does she, Pablo, raising her skirts high,
the looseness of the sea gliding in
and through, proving
you live, proving
she is alive.


~

This is posted perhaps hastily, but I've been invited an "Eros" themed party at San Antonio del Mar this afternoon and have spent some time trying to come up with something "eros-otic" for the readings.  Thanks for suggestions if you run accross too lengthy or redundant stuff.  But also to think in terms of Neruda's long and winding ways with words . . . Thanks.  ld

Stunningly beautiful and passionate, Lynn.
Quick feedback:
"Pablo's" to "your" in S3?
Last S:
The sea is an orgasm, coming and coming and coming, === The orgasm is coming and coming and coming,
smoothing the broken glass of what has been
into jewels of nuance and grain, shadow and light.
The hinged mussel opens, releases its succulent self,
as does she, Pablo, her froth of skirts raised high, === as does she, Pablo, her skirts raised high
the looseness of the sea gliding in and through,
proving you live, proving she is yet alive. ==== providing you live, providing she is yet alive

This last line idea is what read itself to me when I read it, I'm not sure if was the tides of rhythm and "gliding" or what.

Anyway, it's a beast, Lynn. Go sing it and dance with confidence! But there will be a parade following you home. -Tom

pshaw.

I do have a considerable problem with addresses to 'Pablo' throughout and the more general audience address of opening line.  [I will put my name far down on the list so that the wine will have been well-imbibed by the guests and they will not notice . . . ]

I like the suggestion to remove The sea and let the orgasms come. 
Will have to thinking about the providing suggestions for end line.  I do see where you're coming from there, but meaning alters a tad.

muchos gracias,, mi amigo

Srta. Lynn

Whatever you do with this, Lynn, in small changes, can only enhance its shining with topaz light. This is terrific! Of course it will be picked later.

milner

I agree, Milner,

I love the gentle passion of this Lynn, It is explicit enough without being too anatomical...it's really rooted in sensual images.  Images of taste, and touch as well as visual.  A difficult challenge you set yourself here and the poem succeeds.  The way it is addressed to Neruda works well and the use of your own name daring and unusual claiming your own space in it.

I would remove the orgasm rather that the sea (to reduce the telling aspect)...and other bits of explaining

The sea is coming and coming and coming,
smoothing the broken glass of what has been
into jewels of nuance and grain, shadow and light.
The hinged mussel opens, releases its succulent self,
as does she, Pablo, her froth of skirts raised high,
the looseness of the sea gliding in and through,
proving you live, proving she is yet alive.


and (forgive me, Tom) don't change the proving.

Thank you, Milner and Sue -- thanks to each of you.  And always my thanks to Tom.  For those curious, and I am not sure if what follows will find its way into the posted version, but this posted draft below is what I'm taking with me.  [I just have this feeling Eros, old as he is now, doesn't fool around, but comes to the hardened points.]

Eros Conversing on Rivers between Life and Death

She is nipples and need,
Neruda, she is flowers and little deaths
and your river   born in the Chilean Cordilleras
is no more or less than her creek
born in the Trinity Alps. 
They are waters    from latitudes
as strange to one another as you, Pablo,
to Lynn,
who was born the year you
turned forty-three.  She is now
sixty-two.  Pablo, Pablo.  She wears
your words in the froth of her skirts,
in the pink dawns of her thighs
where your music rubs days
into delights of darkness,
enters a womb of papaya and pomegranate,
of seeds ripened and scattered and rising,
and where these waters come
there is salt and   there is beginning. 

There is ending too. 
Memory, alive as coyote
with no pheasant or vole to grip
with hungry teeth,   
leaves her sere, this bone
of past days,
bleached as a skull 
where water has been, until
she dreams the long tremulous windings
of your breath, Pablo, in her hair.

Then, what is inside softens and swells,
extends and ripens like plums fallen
with bright, heavy fleshing
to split and glisten,
to feed lemon bees, apricot wasps –
and they eat
as if no feast will again open for them
and glut them with such sweetness
bite by bite,
ripened plum by ripened plum.
Branches lighten
and the heart of the tree
is an amber bead pulsating
through the rings.

For this reason she wears your words, Pablo, 
in the green days of dying and age,
the scent of static waters too close,
where moss hides the mirror
of sky from itself
and she will be soft sediment
pillowed on bedrock
without current above,
growing into all that has ever been
from her own bones.

But life breathes
moist from your Chilean lips, Pablo,
even across the miles of death,
your kisses, your tongue, Pablo,
between and upon her breasts,
the quickening
of her heart like a ship’s bell on a rocking sea,
the ache she will satisfy
when you come to her
out of jasmine,
out of horizons quivering gold.

Who will care
that she is learning to smile
under water, laughing
beneath the snow melt?
Her flow will take her
to buoyant salt
and the river
from the Cordilleras will bring you, Pablo,
to meet; translucent hands
will touch.

The orgasm is coming and coming and coming,
smoothing the broken glass of what has been
into jewels of nuance and grain,
shadow and light.

The hinged mussel opens,
releases its succulent self,
as does she, Pablo, raising her skirts high,
the looseness of the sea gliding in
and through, proving
you live, proving
she is alive.

Sue, thank you for your politeness, but different ideas make the grass grow. I guess my thing with the "proving" is that both those things have been proven many times over already in the course of the poem; I feel that what Lynn is demonstrating is the providing of life--and that providing gives the provider their life. -Tom

I see we crossed, Lynn. I do like the new layout of the end very much. Bon voyage, Tom

I can't read the other replies before I respond
because I don't remember the last time a poem
made me sigh so deeply as I read.. and so soon after,
again.

love these lines


Stella

Alright Lynn,

You know I have to comment on the length, however, I only think it needs be addressed in terms of tightening and ease of reading which I think you've accomplished to great effect in the subsequent posting.

I had issues with the odd break of the last line in V1, but I see that is no longer a concern.

Strongest verses are the first and last (and you know I was all het up in that last verse).  I didn't have issues with the Neruda references and in fact, I found the repetition of his first name very sensual in its sound.

There is a bit of repetitiveness in the plum imagery in V3, I felt as if you were trying to reinforce the image and I'm not sure you need to hit it so hard.

I'll look for other rewrites, should they come.  As always, you demonstrate such a command of language and words, it's breathtaking at any moment.

Yours,
Tim

Stella,  Thank you.  Appreciate your comment [it made me sigh].

Rod, Thank you.  I didn't know how this would read for people less than forty years old, and your comment makes me think it works.  Appreciate that!

Tim -- I removed one plum repeat.  Might yet snip the other.  Glad the repeats of Pablo worked.  They helped me in the reading of this.  [The guests came and went and the hostess had me read to each new cluster of people; the setting was a patio directly overlooking the ocean--sort of a perfect backdrop for this poem; the last time I read I was seated next to an 88-year old actress named Marty who leaned her head into my arm and said "I was there every minute" -- I gave her my folded copy.  It was the best moment for me.]

Thanks everyone for helping me out on this.  I did replace the sea before the orgasm in the coming and coming lines -- it just works better for me and my thoughts in re: the sea as not only an entity but an action. 

ld

Hey Lynn,

I'm glad the reading went well...I don't know about rereading to various groups...that would have freaked me out, I think. 

The comment from the aging actress was wonderful, and I told Maggie about the time I read to a huge group of students on the campus of a Georgia university.  I have a number of poems that are quite erotic or downright lewd, and after my reading, this woman came up and said, "I may not be a gay man, but I fuck like one."  It's been one of the best compliments I ever received.

Tim

Time for this to go up, Lynn.

milner

Thank you, Milner.  Much appreciated.

lynn

this is a beauty, did you mean the extra spaces in S1?

Thanks, EB.  I did mean the spaces in the hard copy I read from at a small gathering yesterday; they helped me slow up and pause, take a breath.  But I've removed them now from the post.  And thanks for the reminder to to do that -- ld

nice, that's what i thought, keep the spaces, ur the artist

Lynn, no word other than WOW!!
I'm gay, but would happily switch bodies to partake of such fruit  :)
More scientifically, the address to and insistence of Pablo is such a rich musical theme that it gives licence for almost any variation, with or without muliple fruits and orgasms.  The way the sea metaphor steals in and then swells into a counter-theme is pure Vaughan-Williams.
Glorious,  k

Wow, Kevin.  Big thanks for that praise.  You've made an old woman blush!

lynn

Yeah, this is great.
I'd love to know how your mind works.

Scott, ----> me too.
Or not.  Sometimes it's more fun not to know what turn my thinking will take.

Thanks for your comment.

lynn

Just think this is terrific and will shine on the front page.

milner

Bravo. Wonderful choice.

A beautiful homage, but better than much of Neruda I've read.  He tends toget too florid, go on too long, in love with his own ability to invent.  To  think that this had a last-minute genesis as a poem for a party and wasn't worked on for years is astounding to me.  I hope this gets into the book.

Rick

Tiny quibble:  "The sea is orgasm," insead of "The sea is an orgasm"?  More general, also a little less stutter on that small syllable.

In tears, just beautiful. And congrats. Tom

This is a surprise!  Thanks, Milner. 
Thanks for suggestion, SL.  Will think on it. 
Thanks Tom -- who'da guessed?
Thanks Lavonne, and Rick.  I had some help on this right here at PC -- got rid of a plum, have had the orgasm come and go, got rid of some funky opening lines about being no dumber . . . so thank you to those who had a hand in helping me out here.  Every single comment helps me see what or how the poem sits with others. 
Thanks all!

lynn

Very happy to see this here.  Congratulations Lynn and well chosen Mr Editor.

Sometimes a poem is just plain good to read, again and again. This is one.

larry

I came late to this one (hur-hur). A joy from start to finish.

james

One of the best poems on this site in quite some time.

Lynn, this is quite an accomplishment.

lynn;
your talent crackles.  you never cease to make me jealous.
john

oh God,  I Love this.

to each and all, many, many thanks for comments on this poem.  [my power has been off sinmce last Thursday and i am just abler to see/review your kindnesses now.  Thank YOU.  lynn

Is that your electric power or your super power? In any case, glad you're back. Tom