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A SUMMER POEM FOR AN AUTUMN
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It’s cool and quiet today.
The beach days for this year are behind us in sunny Southern California and no matter how
hard we all hope for Indian summer; the chances of it happening are slipping fast.
Though I’m not sure we really had a summer of '98, July and August came around the
same as always but much less predictable than in the past. Today I’m passing on a
summer poem I ran into while re-reading "Looking for A Friend." From the looks
of it I must had a pretty good friend the summer it was written.
- 10/4/98, good buddy. |
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Shana Alexander o
Jerome Cowan o Britt Ekland o Janet Gaynor o Charles Hallam o Thor Heyerdahl o Le Corbusier o Jenny Lind o Carole Lombard o Elisabeth Shue o Millie Small o Fred Travallena o George Westinghouse |
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Friendship
shouldn’t come too easy - or if it does, go easy slower than the photograph coming
from the negative.
As animals should not be caged so love cannot be legalized or
legislated. It must be able to run free.
Unless you call attention to your presence, who will know
you’re there?
Pause before beginning at the beginning. |
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BEHAVIOR AT THE BEACH |
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I try to keep
from pushing up against you
on the street
in public places
here at this hardly public beach,
even coming up behind you
softly, stealthily, when we’re at home.
Admittedly my effort
to put a hold on how I feel
is hardly any effort at all,
love has taken hold
of any sensibilities I had
or given me
so many senses of another kind
that even your embarrassment
at open fondling
that should be saved for privacy
fails to keep my hands
in even well-worn pockets.
Just now
the beach is filled
with people making love
and building several hundred
unimportant conversations.
We say nothing.
There is no necessity for speech
between us
but I roll over every twenty minutes
to rub you down with oil
supposedly
against the sun,
‘til finally you’re layered
like a channel swimmer
or a lacquer box in progress.
I doubt the sun will find its way
through so much petroleum.
The day done we’ll go home
and you’ll be paler than an egg.
Did I really once perceive you
as a friend?
Oh you are, but so much more.
I hope my trusted friends
of long standing and seniority
will understand why I’ve become
to them a missing person.
If they came upon me now
I’m sure they’d find me certifiable
for any institution they could name.
Come into the water. Uncross
your fingers, I promise to behave,
besides you’re slippery
as an overflowing lamp. I’ll scrub
your back with cool, wet sand.
You can float head up, face down,
at your pleasure, supported by
my forearm steady underneath
your breasts.
You see, I can be counted on
to be good natured as a friend
and as a lover to behave.
- From Looking For A Friend, 1980 |
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