Vinni Marie D'Ambrosio, Ph.D.
by Vinni Marie D'Ambrosio, in Confrontation
are meter, not matter.
for a moment
they are flesh.
II. You see,
I'm not in San Francisco, not
disorganizing a plate
in a shady garden restaurant,
not facing a kindly gaze,
but their shapes
draw me like the wind.
III. Here's a stanza tracing a shape,
a horseshoe. Long ago, a tall Cavaliere
meets a girl - my mother's being
is being begun! For good luck, check
out the horse/shoe
of her Papa's stallion.
See its twin prongs throbbing
spondees and forked lightning.
Iron is absent, and hardly missed.
IV. This stanza cradles a foetal curve -
above a beach, a halfmoon rocking
the pair who eloped my lifetime ago. . . .
Look, the moon-beams varnish
a tree while its black leaves turn
jazzy and shimmy and shake.
Half/moon, not really half-unborn.
Well, didn't I lie there in sweet caul?
Was I on the dark part or luminescent?
V. I'm not
incurious, or inattentive, or indifferent to
the thick places.
In a poem we drift straight through solidities, even
through this Brooklyn house
with its limestone fašade
and long intricate curtains bracing
against the wind.
VI. Once, flying
to the West Coast
in a high lonely plane
over a pearly jungle of clouds,
I saw in the sunshine
a great rain-ring,
a round spectrum
balancing in the sky,
for a rapturous arrow.
VII. This part of the poem
is the memory of a marigold.
Upstate, New York.
We crouch, denims touching.
Our faces dome it: we smell its
yellow lineaments -
odor of bookstores,
A trumpet of topaz
flourishing for a Shakespearean king
His hand in love with my hand:
we take the marigold, and it
umbrellas our morning.
We are special, as in a Renoir,
and the air is washing meadows.
He knows a blue lake beyond the hill.
The land is like cake just for me.
Far into my memory a childish chanson winds out
of a park band. . . "Vrai, vrai. . .,"
and a carousel purrs, residence
of wooden horses festooned in gold,
ideal, their moulds
ascending along red poles, spool-turned,
And we, ascended to the hill's lip,
touch the empty sky.
lies the dry and shining biscuit, the lake
its light stable and sunken,
a half-built causeway
I am yet dreaming that chasm blue.
And so we run zigzag down in love
into the gray bowl, the green and sensual hills circling it,
and we pluck two arid gray gifts,
so desiccated as to seem solid dust,
in the shape of birds flying,
when one hill strikes a chord,
a paper comb and mixmasters
and Moussorgsky at once,
and I startle the way a deer does,
my neck lengthened, and he cocks his head,
and soon the hill spins out a thick tuning arc
a long low rainbow in shuddering blacks and silvers
and brakes, and we rise
to stop the disappearance of the huge smooth song
over the other lip of the earth,
but we are left with two dry drowned forms
in our passionate hands.
Copyright © 2008 by Vinni Marie D'Ambrosio
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