Love Poems, 1997
We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection."
- Anais Nin
I was up at five this morning, working on DHJ. Wanting to have the hard part of the layout done so I could show Ken and he'd be happy. I realize with this issue that it's not really our magazine anymore, it's his and I'm assisting. He enjoys being an editor. When I say I want to quit, he says fine. I woke Mom at nine, brought her breakfast, fixed her insulin, opened her blinds and pointed out that it's a beautiful shadowy grey morning. She smiles at me sometimes in a way that makes me sure she's delighted to see me. When she does that, I carry that smile in my head for hours.
I'm thinking about Ken and I and what we used to be. The days when we lived in a tiny little apartment, when we'd make love all night and then wake up midday to sit at the kitchen table. We hated that little apartment. It was so dingy and there was no room for our books and never enough light. But, it was summer then, too, hot and muggy and sexy and we'd sit and he'd make a face that I love and say-- No wait, I won't quote him. I'll share his poem about it instead:
A LOVE POEM
We sit in the white on white kitchen
of this old apartment
with our shirts off,
the sweat beading on our chests,
and our backs stuck to the chairs.
The air is so thick
you could scoop it up by the cup full
and pour it down the sink.
You have a coke,
I have coffee.
and even though it’s just too hot
to move fast,
or even to think fast,
I look at your eyes, and say,
would you like to go to the bedroom?
And you look back at me, and say,
yes, I believe I would.
© Ken Lang 1997
I smile when I read this. We were in our Nikki Giovanni stage and were writing sexy, earthy poetry to amaze each other. He wrote an incredible one about my nipples called the Pink and Brown Poem that every woman should be so lucky to have someone write about her. Even then I knew that when I'm 80 I'm going to be so proud of what that poem says about me.
This one day, he went to the store while I wrote poetry and he was taking forever. It was soul-dripping hot in the house. I hoped he would come back with an icy drink and something salty for me. Sitting outside, waiting, I saw him car come through the parking lot, slowly over the speed bumps and, when he pulled up in front of me, there was a bunch of helium balloons floating around in the backseat. Deep purples and emerald greens. They were gorgeous. In the house, I drew a face on one of the green balloon, and Ken named it Willy, and later, after making love, we went to the park to free it. I wrote this poem that day:
A SUMMER LOVE POEM
This morning,
when I needed something salty
you went to the market to buy me
potato chips and ranch dip
(Ruffles 'cuz you know I like ridges)
I ate chocolate pop-tarts
while I waited
and tried to write a poem between bites
but half-chewed poems
are always mushy
so I stepped outside
and listened for your car
(you know we need a new muffler)
You pulled balloons out of the backseat
dark greens and purples
and that extra one that said
I love you
all tied up in ribbons.
I didn't expect balloons with my
junk food, but it made me happy.
You knew it would.
I told you I'd need to free one later
and you said, the one called Willy
and I liked that, too, so
I used a big black marker to
write Willy across a green one
and we drove to that park
above the valley
where the sun always rises like
it's the last day
the last chance to get everything right
and we let Willy fly
right on up out of there.
© Lisa Haynes, 1997
I need to go check on Mom now. Bye.
- Anais Nin
I was up at five this morning, working on DHJ. Wanting to have the hard part of the layout done so I could show Ken and he'd be happy. I realize with this issue that it's not really our magazine anymore, it's his and I'm assisting. He enjoys being an editor. When I say I want to quit, he says fine. I woke Mom at nine, brought her breakfast, fixed her insulin, opened her blinds and pointed out that it's a beautiful shadowy grey morning. She smiles at me sometimes in a way that makes me sure she's delighted to see me. When she does that, I carry that smile in my head for hours.
I'm thinking about Ken and I and what we used to be. The days when we lived in a tiny little apartment, when we'd make love all night and then wake up midday to sit at the kitchen table. We hated that little apartment. It was so dingy and there was no room for our books and never enough light. But, it was summer then, too, hot and muggy and sexy and we'd sit and he'd make a face that I love and say-- No wait, I won't quote him. I'll share his poem about it instead:
A LOVE POEM
We sit in the white on white kitchen
of this old apartment
with our shirts off,
the sweat beading on our chests,
and our backs stuck to the chairs.
The air is so thick
you could scoop it up by the cup full
and pour it down the sink.
You have a coke,
I have coffee.
and even though it’s just too hot
to move fast,
or even to think fast,
I look at your eyes, and say,
would you like to go to the bedroom?
And you look back at me, and say,
yes, I believe I would.
© Ken Lang 1997
I smile when I read this. We were in our Nikki Giovanni stage and were writing sexy, earthy poetry to amaze each other. He wrote an incredible one about my nipples called the Pink and Brown Poem that every woman should be so lucky to have someone write about her. Even then I knew that when I'm 80 I'm going to be so proud of what that poem says about me.
This one day, he went to the store while I wrote poetry and he was taking forever. It was soul-dripping hot in the house. I hoped he would come back with an icy drink and something salty for me. Sitting outside, waiting, I saw him car come through the parking lot, slowly over the speed bumps and, when he pulled up in front of me, there was a bunch of helium balloons floating around in the backseat. Deep purples and emerald greens. They were gorgeous. In the house, I drew a face on one of the green balloon, and Ken named it Willy, and later, after making love, we went to the park to free it. I wrote this poem that day:
A SUMMER LOVE POEM
This morning,
when I needed something salty
you went to the market to buy me
potato chips and ranch dip
(Ruffles 'cuz you know I like ridges)
I ate chocolate pop-tarts
while I waited
and tried to write a poem between bites
but half-chewed poems
are always mushy
so I stepped outside
and listened for your car
(you know we need a new muffler)
You pulled balloons out of the backseat
dark greens and purples
and that extra one that said
I love you
all tied up in ribbons.
I didn't expect balloons with my
junk food, but it made me happy.
You knew it would.
I told you I'd need to free one later
and you said, the one called Willy
and I liked that, too, so
I used a big black marker to
write Willy across a green one
and we drove to that park
above the valley
where the sun always rises like
it's the last day
the last chance to get everything right
and we let Willy fly
right on up out of there.
© Lisa Haynes, 1997
I need to go check on Mom now. Bye.