The little AU: Falling Leaves: Poets
The little AU: Falling Leaves: Poets
slashfairy
~~
He goes with care through the poems that beckon to him. Most are in his head, very few errors in them where he keeps them stored there, carefully available to him when his own words fail, which is more often than people might suspect, and if it were all right to give interviews in other people's poetry he would do that instead of rambling on, a combination of shyness and wanting to get it right, to make his point clear and unmistakable so that, later, no-one can accuse him of being false, of lying on purpose, though occasionally one might lie by accident, and he would admit to that if it is ever brought to his attention.
In the meantime, he goes through the poems, hundreds of them, that parade in front of his mind and present themselves for expression on the website, or in the forwards of books, or on postcards to his lovers, and every so often he copies one out by hand because it relieves him, it makes him cry, and laugh, and see the world in colour, so that no matter where he is, even if he is alone, he is fully alive and knows he is loved and that loving this moment of life is absolutely the best thing he can be doing with his time right now.
New England Winter, Eclipse
New England will leave you cold.
Winters raw, summer brief; just enough for the heart’s thaw.
One equinox slips quickly and quietly to the next
like so many ribbons about a maypole;
sun sun moon moon - eclipse.
The children clap to see such disappearance;
revel in the midday twilight while the grown-ups look through strange boxes,
regard portals to the universe, mysterious and dark as my heart.
They watch it pass without comment.
Three minutes of me; this is all, this is all.
Come now to brisk Autumn.
Watch us as we fall through timeless space.
Someone told me, The future is indefinite.
He said, Parallel lines meet like lovers lying down,
commingling at last, they give up the fight against true love.
Now I know - such things are better left in the abstract.
Those lines running infinitely toward an ever-receding horizon.
That’s my kind of math.
That’s my kind of love.
That’s my kind of future.
Definite variables repeating in predictable patterns.
I write this as I bend to your cosign.
~Sadi Ranson-Polizzotti
thanks to ann_septimus posting in greatpoets
previously: Tea
next: Adjustments
slashfairy
~~
He goes with care through the poems that beckon to him. Most are in his head, very few errors in them where he keeps them stored there, carefully available to him when his own words fail, which is more often than people might suspect, and if it were all right to give interviews in other people's poetry he would do that instead of rambling on, a combination of shyness and wanting to get it right, to make his point clear and unmistakable so that, later, no-one can accuse him of being false, of lying on purpose, though occasionally one might lie by accident, and he would admit to that if it is ever brought to his attention.
In the meantime, he goes through the poems, hundreds of them, that parade in front of his mind and present themselves for expression on the website, or in the forwards of books, or on postcards to his lovers, and every so often he copies one out by hand because it relieves him, it makes him cry, and laugh, and see the world in colour, so that no matter where he is, even if he is alone, he is fully alive and knows he is loved and that loving this moment of life is absolutely the best thing he can be doing with his time right now.
New England Winter, Eclipse
New England will leave you cold.
Winters raw, summer brief; just enough for the heart’s thaw.
One equinox slips quickly and quietly to the next
like so many ribbons about a maypole;
sun sun moon moon - eclipse.
The children clap to see such disappearance;
revel in the midday twilight while the grown-ups look through strange boxes,
regard portals to the universe, mysterious and dark as my heart.
They watch it pass without comment.
Three minutes of me; this is all, this is all.
Come now to brisk Autumn.
Watch us as we fall through timeless space.
Someone told me, The future is indefinite.
He said, Parallel lines meet like lovers lying down,
commingling at last, they give up the fight against true love.
Now I know - such things are better left in the abstract.
Those lines running infinitely toward an ever-receding horizon.
That’s my kind of math.
That’s my kind of love.
That’s my kind of future.
Definite variables repeating in predictable patterns.
I write this as I bend to your cosign.
~Sadi Ranson-Polizzotti
thanks to ann_septimus posting in greatpoets
previously: Tea
next: Adjustments