after a week of chocolate withdrawal

curious, standing three-quarter turned from him
backlit in a sunshine space, his hand cupped a shape
a sickle thwacked the passion fruit that dream dubbed
cocoa pod, cracked the shell as a lobster mantle,
plasma welled, he called it wound juice, tipped it
drank it sap sweet, licked his lip, offered it to my
shaken head,

he broke into the fruit, pulled the halves, scooped
the pulpy black meat with a metal paddle, worked it
back and forth on a soapstone slab, sunlight from
sudden clerestory, room rough-hewn limestone large
the sibilant slaps works out the 3 layers of the bean,

one thick as lotus paste, a humus blackness, he laid
a dab on the end of the paddle, offered me, at a pinch
my hairline tingled, at tongue complexity of flowers,
smoke, bitter grainy undernote, behind it, slow release
so tender my frame tightened in fear of it, recaptured
too much of my own breath, felt a dizziness compel exit

I stayed, still his slap and from the compound
the thickest was all worked out, slid to one side
mounds of coffee black, almost dry cocoaed clay
while from the smoothening brown separated the
last of slow of warm golden honey run, nose humming

tactile energy field topaz growing towards his
swelling mist of burnt umber wrinkled sweat
where the two heats met between our sides
I dipped a cautious finger to the stone, watching
his face gave permission of slow eye crease smile,
the honey-whey of viscous cocoa rolled my head,

stoically refused to eye the caramel cream of melting
mid density, still he swayed his glinting blade working
loose more of the last two grades and I could feel
the ceiling of the room rise, an aria of skylights

love-mad crows
don’t notice glass
until cat — veer

Spring/Fall haiku at One Breath

I took Love-Doubt of Lampman and I asked myself I wonder if I could rearrange this and keep it a sonnet? and set the challenge to use only the words he used in his, and to change the end rhymes.

I printed it out in larger letters and made it a cut up. A verbal jigsaw puzzle to make a 2nd picture without missing a piece.

I’ll call it Doubt-Love

I’ll transcribe with proper punctuation and capitals when I’m next online and I’ll probably replace the picture since the “I” in the start of line 2 seems to have blown away or got stuck under another piece.

Doubt-Love

Our two sound souls, for love, listening, heard.
I knit with tongue upon that mouth and seek
eyes, word-merry, of the light, but not child-meek.
She retained some yearning shadow, a bird
and it rose, sad and pale in May that curves
as a song. Oh, the mute flower red of cheek,
the her, of ever sunny, the sweet
maker of dreams. Swift light of her eyes stirred.

I tell her about the weighed never should,
sit long with loudest of proud song echoing
throng and gloom. The burdens flit and not faint. I would
speak through wild lily, to laughter, blithe. Knowing
rose. All was innocent-lipped, but if One could,
some might, My Love, and with all watching.

–
That was diverting in an absorbing sort of way. Having done it, I appreciate better how his was remarkably concrete with simple words for all its romantic allusions.

Even with complete rearrangement odd how I still ended up with something of a tragic situation playing out in the lines.

I may keep fiddling to smooth it out, move it around, see what better ways there are.

Rewriting is a form of reading. While reading Archibald Lampman’s A Gift From the Sun I came across Love-Doubt. It was written over a century ago. This romantic sonnet is iambic pentameter puppy love from afar. It is towards a child-woman or woman described as a child. That last bit gave me pause of irritation.

It was written over a century ago and it shows. I was skimming from “her child-sweet mouth” to “the love of some red rose” and getting into an argument with myself. Cliches only become so because they are an intuitive natural way of transcribing a direct experience to a metaphor.

Forgetting what doesn’t work for me, and why, what does? Some killer phrases. Love was sunny-lipped, dreams weighed, be the listening maker of a song as the song is made by being heard.

Overall, the sound travels better than the meaning. Tumbling the words around the end rhymes can stand alone in some sort of discrete poem of two shy people.

flit cheek meek sit knit seek speak
it stirred long heard throng bird song.

It rather encapsulates the mood without the distraction of changed aesthetics and politics. It strips it of gender and many of the abstractions.

What if I were to take it further, peel it off by 5 columns keeping words in their original order top to bottom?

faint sweet watching
soul’s lily
red blithe was light with echoing
song listening

that innocent
all would never
should
could tell
gloom ever loudest merry maker

upon child-eyes shadow
knowing pale love word
Love swift with burdens
wild but

yearning about her light
mute as the one
for all retained
sad, she, I

flit cheek
meek sit knit seek speak
it stirred long heard throng
bird song

It leans it into more the doubt than the exuberance of love, of the title. Some interesting phrases I think. I’ll keep puttering…

One more poem draft before I get back into text ruminating of what I’ve been reading….

Never heard tell de like of dez farm help

somma em settle in real nice like
dey was always with us. somma em
ain’t kept de sense god give a goose —
‘oud drown in drizzle — downpour’ould*
do em in for sure. how come

ppl put 2 n 2 together ofen ’nuff, should know
how it goes. so I give ’em
a 1 and 1 so, as not ta overstate the case none
come back later, stunned as a fish dat got a clobberin
to the ole noggin, I find dey don’t come out with a 4
and dey done nothing towards it at all.

half way is right enough, I s’ppose. A start’s
better ‘an nuttin on it. Still, if ya ask me
some is right bull-headed,

who’s got time to lead folks round by der nose
when dey won’t even follow their own? no use
I tell ya. think der good for us, got it all figured,
talk in a high way like no one can understand
and get all in a bunch an’ sez its your doing
whatever der on about, hot under the collar,
dere’s no calling for that sort of way.

people’s got to be civil but dere’s no telling dem
to simmer down, no talkin to them at all, same as
talkin to this here wall, get ’bout as much outta it.

*contraction of would

—
Concerns with this piece:
1) Is it so dialectical as to be opaque?
2) I’m concerned about authenticity to local dialect. The grammar naturally slips registers in life. How much should I be reflecting that in linguistic capture of place, rural Ottawa valley poor class?
3) is it just a generic inane rant or exotic to someone from away?