I.
I have been too afraid to touch this,
too afraid of breaking,
of burning.
I walked back into the house,
washed your coffee cup
placed it back in the cupboard
as though this was any other day
all the while
something goes howling
crying out
begging me to leave it on the sink
just where you left it
drained of all but a browned milk rim
and the imprint
of your mouth.
Hot liquid removed you from my world
II.
Earlier, I had stood outside the bathroom door
my hand raised
to knock
and I hesitated
caught between longing
and a wish to leave you be
but I knocked
greedy for another memory
and created with you
fresh images for my dreams.
Your shoulder blades sending your skin taut
your spine seemingly sawing gently away
beneath the surface
imprisoned
the ripple of muscle
and you
turning,
turning to face me, to kiss me,
to lift my hair away from my soaking flesh
and drape it
tenderly
neatly
down over my shoulders
down
over my back
your hands moving
to follow,
you
turning
to face me.
Could anything be more beautiful
than your nakedness?
I am touching you and you are dissolving.
Hot liquid removed you from my world.
III.
I have been too afraid to touch this,
too afraid of breaking,
of burning.
We sit, cross legged, like children
facing each other before the fire.
I am enthralled
fascinated
a five year old hearing tales
of elves and pixies
tales told
by the knight in shining armour himself.
I am pinned to this spot
my open mouth full of questions
but so few spill out
I am too
entranced
I am caught in a little prism of eternity
pinned here
right here
on the loungeroom floor
in front of the fire.
I want to touch you
~ Are you real? ~
but I cannot move
spellbound
Where did you come from?
Why do you shine so?
How did you come
to be here
facing me, cross legged,
a child trading tales
in front of the fire?
I reach for my glass, liquor burns down my throat.
Hot liquid removed you from my world.
IV.
There is a moment, a precipice.
I can leap here
into the dream,
verify its reality.
I have been too afraid to touch this
too afraid of breaking,
of burning.
You stretch out
into the dream
but not far enough
not close enough
I must cross
over
I must pass
through
and so
I draw you
gently
until your head rests in my lap.
You are
real
and you’re
here
and I still cannot tell dream from reality.
My hands seek to verify you
You are
real
and now they must memorise you
and it seems
it seems
you are unsure of me also
and your hands reach out
into the dream
and we follow its contours
eyes in our fingertips
fingertips in our eyes
the dream takes shape
beneath hands
beneath eyes
The shapes are
a man
strong back
warm skin
short hair
blue
blue eyes
and a woman
thin bodied
warm skin
long hair
blue
blue eyes
and here is the arc of your neck
and here, the curled shell of your ear
here, the sharp angle of jaw and cheekbone
here, the soft curve of your lips
and arms, legs, back, spine, shoulders,
thighs, wrists, hands, hands, hands,
warmth
and a triphammer pulse that trembles through me.
You are real.
V.
I delayed, I hung suspended over a gulf
of molten lava
of mineral springs.
It is too much to hold back.
I find your mouth
and suddenly we are wrapped around each other
and I cannot remember being other than thus.
Have you not always been here
beneath my hands?
beneath my eyes?
beneath my mouth?
Did we not always fit together this way,
drinking each other’s breath?
It is too much
to hold back.
I need
a bed
a wall
a bench
something
something
to keep me from falling
to raise me up
or pin me down
something
something
to keep me falling.
I cannot delay, I cannot remain suspended
molten lava
mineral springs
swallow me.
Melded by sweat
by an ache for comfort
for expression
for solace
for intimacy
for release
melded by desire.
Hot liquid removed you from my world.
VI.
You found your way there as I knew you would
music draws you
an anchor
a kite string.
There, the piano
and there, your hands
flashes of firelight
ribbons of delicate rainbows.
You raise goosebumps from the keys
and here I am again
enthralled
White ivory, black ebony
neither ever sung for me as they do for you.
You have raised a long gone orchestra
conductor, pianist, vocalist
(the occasional appearance of the court jester,
the madman, the poet, the magician)
My house, a concert hall
peopled with hundreds of performers
and an audience
of one.
Watching your fingers dance with such grace
across the keyboard
my body aches in empathy.
How could it possibly resist your knowing hands?
How could it do anything
but rise up beneath your touch
and sing full throated,
ripples of laughter,
rivulets of tears?
I am biting my tongue on love
as my hands shake
I am caught between longing
and a wish to leave you be.
VII.
It’s time now.
I have been too afraid to touch this,
too afraid of breaking,
of burning.
Another key
not a piano’s
not quite for a lock
but the same for me
just the same.
The car starts
discordant music.
The car starts
the key turning in the lock.
I can’t
go here
It’s time.
It’s time.
I must hold back now
but it is too much
all night
all day
too much.
And this is living?
This is life?
I am hanging suspended over a gulf
and I cannot cross
over
I cannot pass
through.
I raise my hand
and hesitate
caught between longing
and a wish to leave you be
something goes howling
crying out
begging me to let the questions spill
from my mouth
begging me to run my fingers through your hair
and grab hold
begging me to pin us both to that loungeroom floor
in that quiet pool of forever
before the fire.
It’s time.
I must hold back now
no reaching out
no holding on.
I must raise my hand
and wave goodbye
I must turn
away
I must walk back into the house
wash your coffee cup
It is too much
to hold back.
Hot liquid removed you from my world.
VIII.
Could anything be more beautiful
than your nakedness?
(Are you real?)
Could anything be more painful
than mine?
(Were you here?)
5:42am Thursday
22.August.2002
© Melinda Chambers. All posts are the creation of the author and, as such, remain the author's property with all rights reserved.
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Beth thank you! This was one of those poems that wrote itself – one of the best days I’ve ever had. It would have been perfect had I been able to get out of my own way. So, yes, that’s where the agonising came into it – not being able to encompass everything and not being able to leave the “goodbye” out of the picture. I really am my own worst enemy.
One of these days I’m going to a) start writing again (I hope!) and b) write that poem without any sadness in it.
Molli, this invoked so many different emotions and I can literally see you, holding your pencil, agonizing over each word. After reading I just sat here and let it all sink in…..fear, sensuality, sadness, lonliness….ecstacy. My gawd you are so talented.
That’s…wow. It’s still early in the morning for me, so I’m not all there with the words (I’m reminded of Xander Harris’s classic “To read makes our speaking English good!” here), but suffice to say…beautiful and heart-wrenching.
Can’t wait until you do start writing again. But until that time, I’m adoring being able to read what’s been written already.
–Jer
That poem is amazing!
Aside from it being generally fantastic, it reminds me of one of my longer running relationships, though he has never left me with something so symbolic and touchable as a coffeecup with his lip print. I did write a poem about him though, and will see if I can find it for you.
As almost all the lines get to me, picking out the ones to comment on is so hard. But, because I love you, I will try.
I have been too afraid to touch this,
too afraid of breaking,
of burning.
I absolutely fell in love with the poem here. These lines call up visions blackened white ceramic teacup shards and charred skeletal hands clutching nothing. Somethings cannot be touched without those risks. This poem is one of them, but in a very good way.
Have you not always been here
beneath my hands?
beneath my eyes?
beneath my mouth?
Did we not always fit together this way,
drinking each other’s breath?
These will be his favorite lines if he ever reads this. I can already see him raising one eyebrow just so, tilting his head, and saying, “You see? I am not the only one who understands that some love is simply meant to be.”
Jeremy, thank you!
I think you should always read me half-asleep – my poems seem to improve with lack of consciousness 
), I’m pretty sure he didn’t actually have a reaction. Poetry’s simply not his thing.
Fox, I didn’t respond earlier to your comment (or Jeremy’s, since I read them at the same time) because I got a little choked up and weepy. The ironies of you saying “some love is meant to be” are simply too gigantic. Too long a story to get into here but, suffice it to say…. um…. nope, still can’t find a way to verbalise that.
He has read the poem, by the way. While YOUR idea of his reaction to it is extremely gratifying (to say the least
That’s just sublime! How perfectly encapsulated. I’m sorry I misread you before. Reading back, I do understand precisely what you mean now.
And, yes, I’ve received the “cool” response as well, and for precisely the same reason – for the ego stroking rather than the soul’s caress.
[Okay-new rule. The guy you wrote the poem for, for purposes of this post is named Boston. The guy it reminds me of will be Jack, after the pirate-Calico Jack, not Jack Sparrow FYI. Sadly, no one is reading this who will understand the Boston reference. I decided this toward the end of the comment, but put it here so the post will (hopefully) make sense.]
Ohhhhhhh…sadly you misread that, though I wish I had thought to say something so meaningful, I was just babbling about [Jack.]
one of the many people I’ve been involved with.I actually meant [Jack]
the person the poem reminded me ofwould say that. Because that’s…somehow, when you talk to him you find yourself wondering if he’s mad to see the world as some fantastic place full of infinite potential and longing with the unshakable faith he has in things like love and a better world, or if the rest of the world has gone mad to forget. But those should have been [Boston's]your his’favorite lines too! They are amazing lines. But some people are really not moved by poetry (the person I wrote ‘You’ for isn’t, he read it, kinda grinned, and said “cool” more because he thought it was neat I wrote a poem about him and less because the poem spoke to him)[Jack's]
My his’poem, I will actually put here for you, so you have something (arguably) pretty here. Inspired, by (of all things) a magenetic poetry board in a coffeeshop bathroom. Really. This is my life.Ghost with no fortune
somehow in perilous dawn
our fortunes have become entwined
a mysterious cosmic interplay
of fate and destiny
empty immortality and divinely inspired madness
honey-dark wine and starbright ember
wrought into a new monument to love
that will endure sleet and lightening
and remain even after night engulfs the stars
The good thing about ‘You’ is that it isn’t so intimate a poem that the “cool” response is bad. It could be described as an aloof poem, much like the person it was written for.