10-07-2011, 11:16 AM
Adjusted a lot here. Regarding the title, how about if I change the name to simply "Jealousy"? Thoughts would be appreciated.
To list the changes:
S. 2 L. 2 in the middle was adjusted
S. 3 condensed.
S. 4 axed the "museum" bit
S. 5 removed the "name of a room"
S. 6 last line replaced to "Sunday mornings" (took out the "labor" bit)
S. 7 removed "because" on the first line
S. 8 shortened the first line
replaced everything after S.9, so S.10 and 11 would love feedback if you have thoughts.
----------------------------------------------
Jealousy (tentative title)
Was I wrong to think
It was born in your words
And not in me?
Is your mind not a wave
Crashing against the dried beds
Of those lips, the desert of a page?
You used to talk as I held
This very net
Over your voice
Only to see the words scurry through the line.
They are the words I want
To take from your attic
And frame in my cage of glass;
Where you leave them
Swallowed by dust and fingerprints,
I have the rags and polish,
The marble pedestal,
The room where they would sleep
In my house.
If I had those words,
We would share orange juice and sit
In the silence that comes
With Sunday mornings.
There would be no more pens
And hours chasing shadows from a desk.
No more scratches, no erasers;
Only a camera to take their picture
So years from now
I could say "Remember when,"
And laugh.
But instead,
I find your signature
Like fire in a dry wood
And my photographs burn into dreams.
It's an alarm
That sends me back to the office
Ringing from morning until morning,
Loudest when you are near,
And softest when I almost forget
That this is something
You already said.
---------------------
original
To a Poet
Was I wrong to think
Jealousy was born in your words
And not in me?
Is your mind not the wave
I watch crash against the shallowness
Of those lips, the desert of a page?
I remember how you would talk
As I held
This very net
Over your voice
Only to see the words scurry through the line.
They are the words I want
To take from your attic
And frame in my museum, in my cage of glass;
Where you leave them
Unprotected, swallowed by dust and fingerprints,
I have the rags and polish,
The marble pedestal, the space;
Even a name for the room
Where they would sleep
In my house.
If I had those words,
We would share orange juice and sit
In the silence that comes
With finished labor every morning
Because
There would be
No more pens
And hours chasing shadows
From a desk.
No more scratches. No need for erasers;
Only a camera to take their picture
So years from now
I could say "Remember when,"
And laugh.
But instead,
I find your signature
Like fire in a dry wood
And my photographs burn into dreams.
I will have to keep
My place at the desk.
There will be
No end to this work
To have my name
Stitched to your words,
No end to the search
To have this written
Before you have the chance
To put it away
For good.
To list the changes:
S. 2 L. 2 in the middle was adjusted
S. 3 condensed.
S. 4 axed the "museum" bit
S. 5 removed the "name of a room"
S. 6 last line replaced to "Sunday mornings" (took out the "labor" bit)
S. 7 removed "because" on the first line
S. 8 shortened the first line
replaced everything after S.9, so S.10 and 11 would love feedback if you have thoughts.
----------------------------------------------
Jealousy (tentative title)
Was I wrong to think
It was born in your words
And not in me?
Is your mind not a wave
Crashing against the dried beds
Of those lips, the desert of a page?
You used to talk as I held
This very net
Over your voice
Only to see the words scurry through the line.
They are the words I want
To take from your attic
And frame in my cage of glass;
Where you leave them
Swallowed by dust and fingerprints,
I have the rags and polish,
The marble pedestal,
The room where they would sleep
In my house.
If I had those words,
We would share orange juice and sit
In the silence that comes
With Sunday mornings.
There would be no more pens
And hours chasing shadows from a desk.
No more scratches, no erasers;
Only a camera to take their picture
So years from now
I could say "Remember when,"
And laugh.
But instead,
I find your signature
Like fire in a dry wood
And my photographs burn into dreams.
It's an alarm
That sends me back to the office
Ringing from morning until morning,
Loudest when you are near,
And softest when I almost forget
That this is something
You already said.
---------------------
original
To a Poet
Was I wrong to think
Jealousy was born in your words
And not in me?
Is your mind not the wave
I watch crash against the shallowness
Of those lips, the desert of a page?
I remember how you would talk
As I held
This very net
Over your voice
Only to see the words scurry through the line.
They are the words I want
To take from your attic
And frame in my museum, in my cage of glass;
Where you leave them
Unprotected, swallowed by dust and fingerprints,
I have the rags and polish,
The marble pedestal, the space;
Even a name for the room
Where they would sleep
In my house.
If I had those words,
We would share orange juice and sit
In the silence that comes
With finished labor every morning
Because
There would be
No more pens
And hours chasing shadows
From a desk.
No more scratches. No need for erasers;
Only a camera to take their picture
So years from now
I could say "Remember when,"
And laugh.
But instead,
I find your signature
Like fire in a dry wood
And my photographs burn into dreams.
I will have to keep
My place at the desk.
There will be
No end to this work
To have my name
Stitched to your words,
No end to the search
To have this written
Before you have the chance
To put it away
For good.
Written only for you to consider.