CLICK HERE TO HEAR AUTHOR READ
Do you really
need to hold
something back?
Keep in reserve
a little something
a chip or two
just to keep playing?
What if
you could
give it all away
I mean all of it
throw your cards
on the table
show your hand
for everyone to see -
would it mean
the game was over?
The few chips
you kept
are sharp as shards
broken off
a still life
sculpture,
or smooth
as pocketed
worry beads.
Comes a point
you say to yourself
who needs it?
Give it away
I say
every secret
every fear
every hatred
every dumb thought
every bad idea
every prejudice
every joy
every love
give it all away
until nothing's left
there's a chance
you will fly.
I like the way this poem builds at the end to a kind of crescendo. The idea of a "total reveal" with no holds barred is certainly a powerful one, and worthy of a poem.
ReplyDeleteWhat happens, though, if you do a "total reveal" -- all in -- but the person you are revealing yourself to isn't interested in what you are revealing? Is the exercise still worthwhile even if it's done in a vaccuum?
This companion poem is about the notion of a relationship with no barriers, but struggles with the reality that both parties in the relationship may not have the same comfort level with "no barriers". Not only might she not be interested in what you are revealing, but she may be uncomfortable with the thought of a reciprocal "total reveal".
Close
Come closer.
Closer.
A little bit closer.
Alright. Not too close.
That’s close enough.
I tried to get close to you.
I said, after our tongues intertwined.
I tried to get close to you.
I said, after our bodies intertwined.
Then we were at a baseball game.
We were very close to the field – actually, we were on the field.
On the sideline, but close to the action. The players loomed large.
I wasn’t sure if you were as excited as I was.
I kept trying to take your hand in mine, but it would not stay.
My father was there. He was standing near the third base line.
As I came closer to him his eyes lit up in recognition. “Have you ever been this close?” I asked him. “Have you ever been this close?”
“No,” he said. “This is the closest I have ever been. It’s a whole different experience.”
I suddenly saw that the most important thing in life was to be close. To be as close as possible.
And I could see the multitude of colors in your eyes.
And the tiniest hairs inside your ears.
The striations of your skin and fingernails and toenails.
The smallest bumps on the nipples of your breasts.
I wanted a closeness that was strange and original and shocking and different and new and refreshing and revelatory.
And I could see how much it was scary and dangerous and uncomfortable for you.
Ow!
That cut too close.
Ow!
That was a close one.
Too close! Too close for comfort.
You tell me that you prefer mystery. And privacy.
A shared experience for you:
We are each of us reading our own book in the same room.
It was many years ago but you still remind me:
The times when I read your journals
Without asking your permission.
I knew I had crossed a line,
But I thought it would be worth it.
All I wanted was to know you better,
And more intimately.
Trying to navigate between close and too close;
Trying to optimize close
Without slipping into suffocate.
I wanted close to be something that was not the opposite of open.
Something that wasn’t conjoined with disappointment.
I took it on as a challenge:
How to optimize close.
And when he died, they asked me: “Were you close?” And I said: “Yes, we were close. We were very close.”
Because it was like a race, and it was a close finish. But the finish was close because the whole race had been close.
And even before the race.
Sometimes close has no beginning.
But with you there is no end to it.
Those moments of clarity within the blur. We’ve known them.
It’s the clarity within the blur. That’s what being close to you means to me.
A poem that has sex, baseball, a lover and a father (?), and a race with or without a finish line, or a starting line, or both, I can't tell. It seems almost surreal, a dream state, that is intentionally out of focus, the zoom lens too close. And where is the clarity within the blur? Hard to see. My bifocals need adjusting. The line that hit me was "We are each of us reading our own book in the same room" because that's the story (stories) of my wife and me. And then at some point I ask her about her book, what it's about, and she will tell me, and I prod and poke to try to elicit a deeper response, how it's making her feel (if it's a book that has layers) because I want to peel back her emotional layers. And sometimes all you need is your partners presence, reading in the next room, to feel you're not alone. It can be enough. And sometimes you are talking and it just creates loneliness, widens a chasm between you. Closeness can be elusive, as I think your poem describes. And it doesn't necessarily mean physical proximity. And it doesn't necessarily entail talking (maybe the opposite, in fact, maybe silence). Closeness is just a feeling. A balance.
ReplyDelete