Dizzy in Your Eyes: Poems about Love
Page 3
Our Private Rhyme
I wish we could go back in time.
I thought you’d live forever.
I feel I’m only half our rhyme.
You left and somehow I must climb
back to live without your laughter.
Can’t we please go back in time?
I try to smile, pretend and mime
I’m fine, survived disaster
but know I’m only half our rhyme.
Will any spring or summertime
shine without your teasing whisper?
I wish we could go back in time.
I hope that you’ll forgive my whines.
I’m trying to be braver.
So lonely being half our rhyme.
I feel you near. We’re intertwined.
Your spirit makes me stronger.
I know we can’t go back in time.
I’ll strive to be our private rhyme.
Sonnet (from the Italian, meaning “little song”): A fourteen-line poem, usually rhyming and usually in iambic pentameter. Poets can play with any of these elements. Because sonnets are elegant poems, I purposely chose this form to describe a family that might not be viewed as elegant. I wanted to suggest that all kinds of people are good topics for all kinds of poems.
The squeeze
Sundays we squeeze into our low, old car.
We drive to town, excited at the ride.
We cruise by fancy homes—mansions they are—
remind us we live on the other side.
“New people,” my mom calls the fancy folks.
“New clothes, new boots, new hats, new hair.” We laugh.
“I bet their ‘tooths’ are shiny new,” Sis jokes.
Dad scoffs, “Feed their dogs steaks, our better half.”
“Umm, steaks,” sighs Grandma, squeezing in a booth.
We order ice cream, payday yesterday.
“Steaks for their dogs,” sings Grandma, sighing, soothes
the baby on her lap in her sweet way.
He licks like we did, ice cream from her cone.
She smiles, Grandma and her big corazón.
Safety
After the school play, you hugged me
and part of me wanted to stay inside your hugs
the way I used to, resting all safe in the arms
that held me in the beginning, knew me
before I did,
but
I pulled away and ran to talk and laugh
with my friends. I watched you
watching me move away.
What would people say
if I stayed inside your arms, and
anyway, what if I got stuck
in the warmth and never left?
With Feeling
“Where’s the feeling?”
My piano teacher growls,
“Play! Play with feeling!”
He pinches me, his voice impatient.
My English teacher says, “Write!
Write with feeling!”
She tells us to avoid flat words,
dull as the bottom of a bucket.
Feeling? I am all feeling.
Don’t they see it shimmering
on my skin, plain for all to see?
I burn with feeling.
I struggle to contain
tears, giggles, fears, hates, anger,
and love, so much love, all have me spinning
in my purple-green-red-black-yellow private vortex.
Far Away
My grandmother is far away.
I won’t hear her say again,
“Remember how we used to play,
and how I always let you win?”
and pat my hand.
My mother is there now, far away,
whispering in the other language
she lives in. She prays.
She feeds my grandmother with a tiny spoon
food soft as bits of sugared air.
My mother smoothes her mother’s hair.
I see them far away,
speaking with their eyes, love spilling
down
their skin, here and there.
Songs
People are songs.
Some stumble along
trying to find the right key.
Some specialize in dirges,
always moaning about their aches
and others’ mistakes.
Some chirp-chirp automatically,
like old cuckoo clocks.
“I’m like an old tree, sweetie,
still singing in the wind,”
my grandfather would say to me.
Standing in front of his congregation,
my grandfather’s body sang,
listening
to a higher song, harmonizing.
Afterwards, a gentle joke, a wink, a hug,
lifting us all up.
The night before he died, he sang
an old love song to my grandmother.
I bet he held her hand.
I imagine his voice rising and falling
like an old tree, and when he died,
he was singing a hymn, praising
the Lord.
My grandfather, a holy song.
Cinquain (sing-KANE, from the Latin word quinque, meaning “five”): A five-line stanza or poem, often written in five unrhymed lines of 2-4-6-8-2 syllables.
Mundo de agua
Sliding
into blue pool
swirl of my other world,
recurring rhythm: breath, stroke, kick,
wet home.
Stretching
into my breath,
I reach beyond myself,
earth-sounds muffled, water and I
alone.
Racing,
I gasp, we gasp,
then cheer our team on, hoarse
from the hunger, all our practice,
we’re one.
Anaphora (uh-NAF-or-uh, from the Greek, meaning “to bring back or repeat”): The use of a repeated word or phrase at the beginning of a series of sentences or verses.
Sisters
It’s nice having a sister,
especially if she’s older
and quickly outgrows her clothes.
It’s nice having a sister,
especially if she’s a shopper,
and you laugh together until it hurts.
It’s nice having a sister,
especially when you both pick on your brother
and tell your mother, “It’s his fault.”
It’s nice having a sister,
especially when you can join her
and her friends for pizza or a burger.
It’s nice having (or finding) a sister,
especially when she smoothes her powder
and new makeup—on you.
It’s nice having a sister,
especially when boys come over,
and some of them like you better.
It’s nice having a sister,
especially when she whispers
a secret your parents don’t know.
It’s nice having a sister,
especially as together you grow older,
and share years of private laughter.
My Cross-eyed Cat
Shakespeare said, “Love
is in the eye,” and
you, O Cat, are my private
prize, staring eye
to eye, warm fluff,
too old—sorry—
too regal to run,
you saunter
into the sun’s irresistible lullaby,
doze worryless,
content, then stretch,
and s t r e t c h in the warm
comfort. Deep in your fur,
you track me
without moving, then,
with the patience of age—
drawn to me
like a moth to a bulb’s warm
song—you saunter roy
ally to me,
burrow,
purr in pure pleasure.
You stare at me with your
crossed eyes, my unique,
loyal beauty.
Three Loves
My aunt saw love
strolling in Tokyo’s Palace Park,
my traveling aunt
who brings me chopsticks and stories.
I
A man walked his Pomeranian,
then stretched him on a bench
in the sun. A brush in his palm,
the man slowly began to rub
his small, regal dog
in slow, soft circles, their daily rhythm.
The reddish fur and that man’s love gleamed.
II
A woman pushed her mother’s wheelchair
near a bench, both women in
baseball caps. The daughter turned her mother
toward the sun to warm her bones.
Then the daughter placed her hand
on the knee of the mother, drifting away.
III
A young mother watched her son and daughter run
inside wide, outdoor, roofless rooms,
leafy confinement.
Then the trio sat on round stools.
“Remember? Like us, they were pretending
they sat on toadstools,”
said my traveling aunt
who brings me chopsticks and stories.
Haiku (hi-KOO, from the Japanese, meaning “starting verse”): A three-line, seventeen-syllable poetic form, rhyme optional. The beats per line are fixed at 5-7-5. Since haiku traditionally contain a seasonal reference, I decided to use the four seasons as the settings for four haiku that chronicle a relationship.
Love Haiku
I
Everything’s in love.
Birds, butterflies, and now me,
dizzy in your eyes.
II
Love blooms in hot nights.
Under stars, hand-in-hand strolls.
Kisses like star sparks.
III
Now I walk alone.
Did autumn wind cool our love?
No hugs warm me now.
IV
Snow, advise my heart.
White whisper, “Friends. Books. Patience.
Bright new year’s coming.”
Acrostic (uh-CROSS-tick, from the Greek, meaning “tip of the line”): The initial letters of each opening line spell a word or name, which is also the subject of the poem.
Four-Letter Word
Like breathing, I started when I was born,
started loving. I didn’t know its name,
but I knew pleasures: eating, warmth.
One day, like a flash of lightning, I linked
the four letters, the feeling, with
the word. The word was never the same.
Very soon, I could list loves galore:
sunshine, Mom’s smile, Dad’s laugh, our house,
my bed, jeans, friends; the taste of peppermint,
music that lifted me soaring off the floor.
Ever since I met you, the word, the same four letters
became a private place
your face takes me,
ours the only keys
to the invisible door.
Triolet (tree-oh-LAY, from the French, meaning “little trio”): An eight-line fixed form. The first line is repeated in lines four and seven; the second line is repeated in line eight. The rhyming pattern, then, is ABaAabAB.
Lonely Day
I saw your dress sway
with the breeze
at the end of a lonely day.
I saw your dress sway,
drying on a hanger, play,
dance with summer ease.
Softly, I saw your dress sway
and wished I were the breeze.
Blues: This form uses various patterns and combines the African American oral tradition with the musical blues form. Often about struggle and resistance, a blues poem can also depict sadness and loneliness.
3 a.m. Blues
It’s late—or early. 3 a.m.,
but six notes keep repeatin’.
Early or late, 3 a.m.,
those six notes still repeatin’.
I hear your song beginnin’,
slip-slidin’ to have you grinnin’.
Your eyes make me want to shine
so you’ll see me.
Your eyes make me want to shine
so you’ll see only me.
Your lips always look a little lonely,
so I’ll sing this song for you only.
Six notes keepin’ me awake became
sway of your walk, whisper of your curves.
Six notes keepin’ me awake became
your walk’s sway, whis-whisper of your curves.
And what a shame.
You don’t even know my name.
Secrets
I am all secrets now.
I know when you walk into a room.
I don’t need to see or hear you
behind me,
but I know you’re there
and wish you’d touch
my shoulder when you walk by.
How can you do that,
without a sound,
send electricity,
a current
through a room full of people?
When did this crazy secret life start?
People see me but don’t see
I’ve changed.
The me people see isn’t the tangled
me inside,
trying not to think
about you,
your laugh
splashing like a waterfall
on a hot summer day.
Couplet (CUP-lut): A rhyming two-line stanza or poem.
Opposites
He likes pickles, sour. Me? I like mine sweet.
He likes chocolate ice cream. Vanilla’s what I eat.
Big dogs for him, lazy cats for me.
I like to read; he likes TV.
I like to dance; he likes to surf.
He likes to cook, kitchen’s not my turf.
I like to dress up; he likes to dress down.
I’m kinda nerdy; he’s more the class clown.
He likes scary movies I don’t want to see.
I’d rather be at a slumber party.
He’s very neat; some say I’m messy.
He thinks he’s punctual. I sure don’t agree.
Loaded burgers for him; I’m a healthy gourmet.
Some predictable stereotypes, from cars to ballet.
“But together we’re great,” he’ll often repeat.
My funny guy is remarkably sweet.
I confess I’m amazed to be so spellbound
on our wacky opposites merry-go-round.
Lyric (LIR-ick, from the word lyre, a small harplike instrument of ancient Greece that was often played to accompany sung poetry): A form that expresses strong personal feelings.
You’re Beautiful
Like the green romance of a bud
and lily’s pink, gentle sway.
You: more beautiful than yesterday.
Wildflower’s blue surprise.
Daisy’s white, sunny play.
You’re more beautiful than yesterday.
Orchid’s purple mystery.
Mum’s bronze olé.
You: more beautiful than yesterday.
Rose’s orange perfume,
even tulip’s yellow secrets say:
you’re more beautiful than yesterday.
Poppy’s red, teasing lips,
but your beauty will never fade.
You.
More lovely than yesterday.
You.
My dazzling bouquet.
Summer Love
Sometimes, we don’t even hold hands.
We just stroll and talk about
everything—