Zooey

[rowens]

When she sings,
Like a warm salt
Of frost that seldom falls;
A pepper-hot shaker,
Young in the oldie caper
I profligate-
Ly adhere to;
In drunken dances,
Beyond thin shades of accustomed nights.

In the crude winter,—
I never bought her Christmas record.
Though heathen devotion, for
Latter saints:
I find to be the candy corn
Of her all hallowed songs.

And autumn,
Crisp as her unadulterated youth inspires.
I wanted to make it that the drinking was a solution
They had righteously disclaimed.

I didn’t want it to be sad.
Like her early parts so often are.
In the singing; in the lively dancing,
My spritely muse enhanced:
—When I think such as her have to die,
My dying isn’t as hard.

But you don’t have to die, Zooey.
You might wince a celebrated quirk,
But girl—. It’s sent.
Your angelic message from the stars.
—I’m drunk.
Please don’t say that’s all there is of love.

She says it the way I say it, secretly to myself.
In her annunciations, my southern stars are spelled:
Sweet chariot, sweet chair—ee—ut!
And much more than that, in her own words,
I chant—

The country-blues, remotely enchanted.
From her distant well,—
We can’t pail…

O Zooey Deschanel,
I too have an androgynous name,
But you don’t know it…
As, literally, you are the singer:
—And I am but a dance.

[billy]

does warm salt sing? i sort of stopped a while to ponder the fact

a solid homage to a hottie. you create an affinity with her that's pretty loose
yet strong albeit on your end . i have no constructive crit apart from the salt simile

i enjoyed it a lot.

[addy]

I enjoyed the piece as well. A touch contemplative, and sweet. As far as critique, i thought profligate was an unnecessarily awkward word choice that took me out of the scene a bit. But most of it was a nice read

[rowens]

It's hard to find a poem of mine where I haven't said or done something awkward. And about warm salt, I was thinking of having warm defrosting salt or snow falling on and around me. Her rare ability to warm me on these faraway, cold nights. She makes me think of spring, bright, warm things; though she is pale with dark hair. Seemingly simply and silly, and movingly profound, at the same time. On the dark, cold nights in the rural south, my stomach full with the warmth of wine, and I put on her "She and Him: Volume One". By the time it gets to "Black Hole", I can't help but sing along, it's kind of silly and sad; and our accents mesh, and I'm drunk. Then, "Got Me", and it's a transcending experience, she's so good. The vibrations of her voice, I feel through my body. If I could write poetry as beautifully as she sings, I'd be a very confident man. I'm so glad that this woman is in this world. If I was on my deathbed, and she was there singing, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot", I guarantee you God would exist, and I'd go to Heaven. I'd be drunk in some way or another. That's where this poem comes from.