Monday, February 6, 2012

Notebook: Summer

Hey, reader. It's been a while, I know. I've spent a lot of time elsewhere on the Internet, keeping busy with the life, but I thought I'd swing by my poor, dilapidated blog and leave a gift for those faithful followers who actually decide to check out Half-Blaked every now and then.

The following is a poem I wrote for the poetry workshop class I'm taking this quarter. I have to admit, this has been the best class I've taken at Ohio University yet. I've learned so much about writing, poetry, and myself and have grown as a writer so much already. And it's only midterm week!

Anyways, note that this poem, like all my poems, is a draft. It may be edited, changed, deleted (hopefully not this) at any whim. Poetry is living art and the best writing comes with revision. Please, enjoy it while it's here and tell me what you think! I mean, I'm baring my soul here!


I love a summer girl whose feathered tresses,
like a gilded crown atop her head –
straw spun into gold –
strangle my finger.

When she smiles, her bottom lip curls,
biting. Those lips like the fruits of Paradise beckon,
tempting me with knowledge – sweet sin.
Her laughter spreads, growing
the dimples on her cheeks like budding perennials.

And I hear Simon and Garfunkel,
crooning over my car radio,
while I hold her hand as she cries.
The odd, warm raindrops blotting my shoulder,
falling from bluest skies flecked with gold.
I wonder, “Can I drown?”

In the hottest afternoons, the swimming pool is our refuge.
It is my guiltiest pleasure to watch as she removes her cover up,
bathing in the unforgiving, summer heat as if
the sun’s rays were the white foam of waves upon the beach.
Her limbs are long and shapely like the necks of Aphrodite’s swans
and her skin as smooth as silken cream.

Her touch drives me to terrible ecstasy:
inside I writhe like a million fish wriggling
to be free of the trawler’s nets.
Stars go supernova in my chest
and are born again,
the space dust accreting around
what once was my heart – oh, exquisite agony!

I love a summer girl, but winter comes –
inevitably, inexorably.
Though we still had autumn to enjoy,
in the deepest, cannot-deny pits of our stomachs
we knew.

“Treasure us,” she whispered, her parting words
like a bumblebee trying to pollinate my ear.
It was an August day:
her gauzy, white dress in the orange afternoon,
polka dots like yellow canaries
fluttering to and fro across powdered snow,
dancing, dancing away.

I have loved a girl with summer in her hair,
our hearts entwined bind us like golden chains.

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