By Dennis P. Carey
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1977
Ode to Eve
Eve
sits
laughing
telling
musical
jokes
turns
stern,
looks
at me.
I am an infant.
Her teeth grow large,
skulls float
around us.
She grows larger, larger,
the universe
no longer smiling.
Oceans of blood-skull-flow
each,
frightened to
death, I am
and tickling my own
tummy,
a smile chases my fear.
I tickle my own tummy
a smile chases my
fear
I reach for her larger toe,
as great as Meru,
itself.
As I suck, I visualize a
poem,
my love for her.
I send it out through
the capillaries in
her skin.
She shudders,
the great universe;
and I grow
as large as she
and
I am shooting
arrows,
my poems
at the
blood-flowing skulls
that circle us.
As the blood-pour descends to
the horizon,
it turns sky-blue, electric
and recreates
into millions of transparent,
multi-sized
spheres. (My invisible bow is
our phallus.)
We are equal in size, the
universe together.
We are two-year-old children
and the
skulls are speaking my poems
in her voice.
She and I, yab-yum, in total
blackness.
It is love at first sight.
We awake. Ourselves.
***
Oh yes
the wind
through bird's
toes,
the whistling of events
scurry beside me.
In windows
the far sight
sees himself laughing at
doors
that shut
winter's envelope.
I see
the colours of
trees drip ice,
the twinkle of
soon-to-come
reaches me from
jarred noise.
The air sits
smiling frowns
across my sun-tan
I wander crevices.
I roam star-light
in quiet wonder.
Who is she?
* * *
Love,
of course
a dirty rag
that
wipes from scars,
invisible.
* * *
Hey,
dark lotus one!
your scuffy scuttle.
The moon rising
The red tongue within
flutes a blue prank
and settles for the dawn,
like a claw.
crossing the river.
* * *
Your
doorway
the scent of your touch,
melodies
that recall our music.
A
wet kiss,
the floor rug smiles up,
I
sit next to you, to hear of you.
Your
hair shines,
the space between colours.
We
talk of merriments and sadness.
Wind
nestles through cracks
in the wall.
wants
to share us
or
carry us with it.
Can
we find each other
in the search of competing rush?
The
snow will come, covering dormancy.
In
Spring, I wish to bathe you.
The
nut I save now
is to share with you.
* * *
Day's
late
he sailed across earth's trespass.
A
rested warrior gone home,
full
lived, returned.
crying pigeons flutter,
the
dark spot vanishes:
His name be done. Amen.
* * *
In the room,
no more than a doorknob,
entering.
* * *
Dreamlessawakening
-
Thoughtfirst, where is the dream?
Could
it be that
once I enter the dream, with memory,
all is invisible.
Yes.
This is the clue.
When
you dream
you seek.
When
dreams cease
you enter.
Becoming
your dream, you are.
* * *
Death!
You dolt, why tempt me?
I
know who I am and what.
Who you are and what!
Death,
I am spirit, and don't need you to live.
* * *
I
have bought the spiritual pancake
and so I cruise along,
awaiting
the
carrier of new seed ideas,
who walks into life;
myselving.
She,
weak when I left her
is my new strength
or a symbol for its becoming,
Now.
A
talker she, who takes me in
and forbids self-lies
A
citizen of Song, wild-chasmed between her legs,
facing each day, a little worried.
She
cooks our bread, new made wish
for each of us
together.
She,
sweet oven of our desire.
* * *
Tears
come
on waves of feminine memory.
My
Ocean
fulls Touch, aching loss of her.
In
mind we are divine.
In
flesh we are a mess.
In
Time, the kettle steams loud;
In
Space, gaseous, our bodies touch.'
My Lord, thank you
for
the gift of my little hearts' desire.
* * *
Do
I write poetry like a blind lover to
his
goddess?
Can
the knowledge of this reality
touch
all realities and enliven the
feelings
of thought? Will she cry for
my
absence and light candles to
my
image? Or will her despairing
past
throw rubble down upon our
seedling
love-newness, drown in
clay,
the spring of discovery,
crush
with past's stones, now's
new
bud? -- Will Mamon crush
our
living death to dust?
* * *
I
sing the Archetypal feminine
as she enters Maya,
as the soul's breath,
the songstress plucks chords of Love.
I
kiss the flashing feet of Siva,
nestle in the water with the blue
dancer,
coil snugly with the lotus sleeper.
* * *
I
reluctantly bathed love's dry drench,
sat closed eyes
watching her mystery.
The darkness.
She,
in me bathes sweet-soup pure memory,
gives unseen signs
sings so true melodies.
Periodically,
we need each other.
* * *
In
the twelfth house
blue room
doubt
sat
idly
thinker's galore.
And
the silence, listening
(listening,
listening, listening)
* * *
The
room is large
decorated with her memories
of conquest, of submission,
deaths, rebirths -
some toothpast stain.
an
old manuscript, torn
by a change in circumstance
a poor decision.
Stop,
continue, lose, gain. Finish.
She
is the reaper of her own Present.
Consuming
the inner ghost, she laughs
birthing wonder-song.
Minstrel
skin, the woman flesh-eater.
(Devours
anima projections pointed
her
way)
She,
ingredient of Self.
* * *
One
of her voices, I fear.
The stern one,
the masculine eye.
She
often is silent -
then, the male speaks:
I shudder,
repressing the instinctive
sword
thrust response.
I would kill the male
who spoke
to me that way!
Often
she marvels, "you're honest, really."
-
endless mutterings, retreatless halts;
I
cannot cease to lie to her.
Vast,
moist darkness
her mouth.
She
screams perfection is not!
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Eve's Magazine