Darjeeling

In the water unfurling

at 100 degrees

the tea leaves grow flaccid

and release a scent Asiatic

that cries of peasant farmers,

toils, blood, and trade

sipped mercilessly from china Limousin

in gardens Babylonian.

10:50 PM

Sometimes I feel ridiculous. It's like my head is full of the brightest ideas but I don't actually ever write them or put them down onto any tangible substance. I can be the greatest thing in my mind but it's not yet the time that I (or anybody else, for that matter) will see any of that in a productive way. I don't mean to sound down or depressed because I'm not; it's just funny to me. When I try to think of things I've written I draw a blank. It's like I've never actually written anything. And yet when I search the folders on my computer of writing I find what appears to be vast amounts of text and prose, just nothing completed or committed to. And then I think that this microscopic bit of work pales in comparison to anything else any writer I would care of would have had lying around. I'm almost terrified to call myself a writer - it just sounds so self-conscious and assuming. One who writes. I guess what I mean is that it implies talent, and until I'm sure that I have some I'm not going to want to go around branding myself as somebody with merit. I'm not ready to put myself into a category of writers (I mean Plath, Hollinghurst, and Austen were writers) until somebody else does it for me. I'm not sure how to appraise my own writing - when I did visual arts it was easy; the difference between good and bad was right there in front of one's eyes. Music performed is the same and the ear attests to the quality of a performance or composition. Acting, dancing, etc... But writing! Writing appears as black shapes on a page and I need to sift through it with my brain and my heart before I can hope to say if it's even satisfactory.

A friend of mine gave me some poetry today that she wrote years ago about England and the changing of the seasons. She thought I would be interested because as weird as it sounds in a month I'll be living there. Maybe when I get to Falmouth and I'm forced to sit down and scrawl words onto a page I'll be able to work through something until it satisfies me. I really just cannot wait.

Dancer

Your tapering heels

and lush textiles obscure

the pedestrian insecurities

to which we all are prone.


With a crimson laugh and a breath of perfume

announce yourself to the room.

Homecoming

We won't entertain you in this

house anymore;

there's simply not the room.


It's ours at last

after fifty-eight years

the sparrow's nest is hewn.


In walls and rooms to our voices fresh

the diving-bell angst, the asphyxiating silence is gone.

Alexander

Over time

your words turn into icicles

and I'm never quite sure what to say

when the sun comes up.

Vignette

In my banal existence

there is nothing less than pure sex

in the magnetism I feel

when our faces nearly touch.

Like a Child

With my breath

I push away your

tiny seeds

to float upon clouds.

Will you carry yourselves

to a place where you might

germinate more than another

dandelion?