My Two favorite poems of the week:
The first is by Francisco Arcellana entitled, "The Other Women" I by no means condone "adultery" but I could not help but think Brad Pitt must have felt like this when he met Angelina Jolie. I just love the descriptive obsessive observance the speaker has. It makes me wonder if someone has ever noticed me like this?
The Other Woman
~by Francisco A. Arcellana
I have watched her in stillness,
how still and white and long.
I have followed her about with my eyes,
how silent and swift and strong.
When she is still, it is musical.
When she moves, it is a song.
I have looked at her fearlessly,
openly, and without shame:
it is quite true that I desire you,
it is quite true that lust is my name.
I know, I always know where she is,
when she is around and about:
it is in my body like a shout.
soft hair, white brow, eyes young
nose fine, sweet lips, sweet mouth, tongue
proud chin, neck white, graceful, long
downy nape, smooth, shoulders strong
under the arms soft, arms long
sweet and exquisite, white and strong
wrist small and supple
hands neat, exquisite
fingers -- petals of the lotus
breasts like apples
white body shining, sweet and long
hips broad and ample, wide and strong
thighs like pillars, white and long
legs like cedars, firm and strong
feet that are sweet
toes like the rose
I know her name, I have called to her
but she does not hear, she will not listen.
I call to her but she does not come.
The Lord is my shepherd but I want.
The second poem is by Anne Sexton. I feel it's a good reminder of just how nice we should try to be in speaking and dealing with other people.
Words
By Anne Sexton
Be careful of words,
even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be as good as fingers.
They can be as trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.
But they can be both daisies and bruises.
Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.
Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren't good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.
But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.
