Monday, December 27, 2010

Taste, Cinnamon, Music, and Touch

This is something I wrote at a poetry workshop. If it sounds a little forced, it's because it was. It was a really good excercise though. And it was the first time I've ever had to read aloud my own poetry. Yikes.

Mysterious land of far-away
Spice of sense perception and ironic gifts
Things beneath the surface of self-consciousness
The mask level
Bow to the scraping of violin strings
In the courtyard where I danced with you
Your trembling masculine hands
Lifted to praise the blackness
Incomprehensible, but seductive
I was as baffled as you
The Far East where minarets spin
And mystics create dew drops in secret
The cinnamon melts in your mouth
And the music on your fingertips.
There a breeze creates a current
Lifting both our hearts to mythology
Not the blackness of death
But the abscence of frovolity
Our sighs wrapped up like morning glory
Moonbeam magic reads our hands

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