I met a woman, and as a result I began to write poems. Love will do that to you sometimes. So will despair.
By now I have written quite a few poems, mostly for her, and they range from happiness to hopeless anguish and back to happpiness. The woman who I wrote the poems for has read this blog and thinks it could use some softness, so she suggested that I post one of her poems. With this blog entry, then, I am doing that, and I will let the poem stand or fall, without discussion. The name of the blog entry is actually the name of the poem.
We move in a world of mist and darkness.
Down country roads,
Through evening villages,
Past autumn Amish farms—
Our talk is small and intimate: doctor’s visits, former jobs.
I barely notice passing lights in the wet night,
As I am looking over at you,
Bewitched by my fortune at being there.
We are in a world of light and shining dishes.
Our table near the wall holds bread and beer,
The wall near our table holds paintings of fantasy worlds.
We must choose our salad,
And seriously consider the lettuce.
But how can I,
When you sit across from me
With your soft long hair?
We are in a world of words and ideas.
I tell you about mistakes young scientists make
When they are writing reports.
You tell me about an Irish band
And the way it feels to dance to that music.
I hear your words,
I know what they mean,
And they interest me.
So why do I have to work to follow what you are saying?
Like drowning, a desire to kiss you
Sweeps me away from mist, from light, from words.
I am in another world
Where kissing you is the only purpose of existence.