mots d’une immigré / words of one immigrant

 

“There is no pleasure to me without communication: there is not so much as a sprightly thought comes into my mind that it does not grieve me to have produced alone, and that I have no one to tell it to.”   –  Michel de Montaigne

 

“Communication works for those who work at it.”   –  John Powell

 

 

 

 

mots d’une immigrés

at times

immersion

comes slowly

despite desire

and diving in

head first

i still catch

myself

glancing at

the time

yet

en la belle France

time is not

measured in

minutes, hours

or seconds.

but in kisses

aperos,

discussion

avec des amis

au-dessus d’ un repas

my tongue

trips and

tumbles over

vowels and

consonants

yet

la langue

française

moves stealthily,

silently,

randomly

into my written

voice

*

bisous,

léa

ravenous

“Blake said that the body was the soul’s prison unless the five senses are fully developed and open. He considered the senses the ‘windows of the soul.’ When sex involves all the senses intensely, it can be like a mystical experience.”

–   Jim Morrison

“Too much of a good thing can be wonderful.”   –   Mae West

“Love is so short, forgetting is so long.”   –   Pablo Neruda

“Passion is universal humanity. Without it religion, history, romance and art would be useless.”  –    Honore de Balzac

 

ravenous

j’ai faim

though it be a

minute

or hours

since we parted

the echos of our

melding

reverberate

flooding each cavity

causing cells to spasm

your hunger collides

into my own

ensemble

the pangs of

starvation

but your taste

lingers on my tongue

sizzling, salty then sweet

your touch burns

beyond the boundaries

of flesh

famine sharpens your desire

hunger – thrusting yours

into my own

rhythm rocking

extremities locking

filling each other

sparks flying

one day – perhaps

we will spontaneously

combust

*

bisous,

léa

still

“Touch has memory.”   –  John Keats

 

“So she thoroughly taught him that one cannot take pleasure without giving pleasure, and that every gesture, every caress, every touch, every glance, every last bit of the body has its secret, which brings happiness to the person who knows how to wake it. She taught him that after a celebration of love the lovers should not part without admiring each other, without being conquered or having conquered, so that neither is bleak or glutted or has the bad feeling of being used or misused.”   –  Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha

 

“Who taught you to write in blood on my back? Who taught you to use your hands as branding irons? You have scored your name into my shoulders, referenced me with your mark. The pads of your fingers have become printing blocks, you tap a message on to my skin, tap meaning into my body. Your morse code interferes with my heartbeat. I had a steady heart before I met you, I relied upon it, it had seen active service and grown strong. Now you alter its pace with your own rhythm, you play upon me, drumming me taut.”  

Jeanette Winterson,  Written on the Body

 

 

still

*

i lie in your

arms

watching you sleep

not wanting to wake

you

yet this appetite

this hunger

for more

you

grows

with each breath

you take

*

still

i want to touch

you

to

rèpondez à plusieurs

reprises

to the cool

then searing

brand you leave

on my flesh

inside

a chorus of

cells

echo the mantra

you, you, you

jusque-là

i remain

under your spell

*

bisous,

léa

Impressions

“It’s pretty simple, pretty obvious: that people’s first impressions of people are really a big mistake.”  –  Vincent D’Onofrio

“Harold, like the rest of us, had many impressions which saved him the trouble of distinct ideas.”   –  George Eliot

***

 

Impressions

Not impressed

By the cover

Your stories

Words

Actions

That make

You

Those I shall

Read

Reverently

Quietly first

In Braille

Then out loud

No stone unturned

Moving on to trace

The outline

Mouthing the

Words

Absorbing the senses

Neural imprinting

I shall

Know you by

Heart

***

Bisous,

Léa

Exaltation

“Anything worth doing is worth doing slowly.”

– Mae West

*

“Try to keep your soul young and quivering right up to old age.”

– George Sand

*
“Lust’s passion will be served; it demands, it militates, it tyrannizes.

– Marquis de Sade

*

Exaltation 

You

You are the one

I can feel your warmth

Over here

I’m watching you

I don’t know how to tell you

I want to toss rose petals

Lavishly upon the sheets

Take you by the hand

Take you by moonlight

Take you

Upon the flowered altar

I feel your arms surround me

When we meet

Our eyes connect

And the knowing that this is where we belong

I can feel you head

Resting against my breast

After making love

The beat of your heart

Responds to the

Thunder of my own

Bisous,

Léa

Memoir

“Love is forever, lust is for the moment…got a moment?” – Michael Gorman

“Too much of a good thing can be wonderful…” – Mae West

Memoir

You shall be

My pillow book

My brush

Will record

Each story

We create

Slowly

I master

Every pore

Your flesh

Will sing

With the

Tears, lust

And laughter

Shared

Exclamation points,

Ellipsis

I shall

Punctuate you

With care

Overlooking

Naught

Each mark

I leave

Every stroke

I make

Indelible

Bisous,

Léa

Sanctuary

“I speak two languages, Body and English.”

– Mae West

Sanctuary 

Your eyes

Are my deepest

Sacred pools

Light reflects

As it dances

Across the iris

Following my movements

As I take command

Distraction averts your focus

Boundaries collide and fall

I shall return again and again

For sustenance, for warmth

To grow in the hallowed embrace

Of this sanctuary

Bisous,

Léa

for the record

“All discarded lovers should be given a second chance, but with somebody else.”
– Mae West

for the record

she keeps her

book

near the bed

neatly listing lovers

she has known

they wonder

does she grade

on the curve?

Bious,

Léa

Hands Of Time

“Pick my left pocket of its silver dime, but spare the right – it holds my golden time!”  – Oliver Wendell Holmes

“The whole life of man is but a point of time; let us enjoy it.”
– Plutarch (46 AD – 120 AD)

“As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.”
– Audrey Hepburn

Hands of time

Tick, tick, tick

The hands on the clock

Hands swift

Hands almost still

Fleeting moments of childhood

Chubby dirt encrusted hands

Grasping the giant monarch butterfly

Perched regally on golden buttercup

“Pretty mommy!”

My eyes rush to freckles

Smudged with earth

“Yes, very pretty!”

*

Glistening sunlight laced

Through copper curls

Tumbling down emerald slopes

Tumbling

Tumbling

Rolling from side to side

Giggling

Time belongs to you my child

*

Hands move briskly

Time goes so fast

Larger hands

So sure is his grip

On the shiny red two-wheeler

Copper curls flying in the wind

“Watch me mommy!

See me go!”

“Yes I see”

My heart quickens

As I watch you ride away

*

The hands move

With increasing speed

Strong sure hands

Now larger than my own

One encircling my waist

One upturned – palm outstretched

“Car keys mom, got a date”

The copper darkened, slicked back

And in style

As you rush out the door

I turn to the clock

Anticipating your return

The hands move so slowly

*

Faster, faster

Those hands on the wall

Your hands firm, steady

Entwined with fairer ones

Her blonde head rests

On your shoulder

Mixing with copper waves

“Mom, we’re in love!”

Orange blossoms fill the air

As early June sun

Trickles through stained glass

Your faces beaming

For a brief moment

The hands stand still

*

Hands move with unrelenting swiftness

Mature gentle hands

One caressing scarlet down

The other held captive

By a tiny fist

“Mom, isn’t she beautiful,

She has your smile!”

Choking back tears of joy

I nod in affirmation

Admiration for unjaded

Eager hands

*

Hands move with increasing uncertainty

Its message

I bequeath

Vigilant hands

Your hands – supporting my hands

Frail

Withered

Still

*

Bisous,

Léa

“image is everything”: literary sensibilites

“All good and true book-lovers practice the pleasing and improving avocation of reading in bed … No book can be appreciated until it has been slept with and dreamed over.”
― Eugene Field, The Love Affairs of a Bibliomaniac

literary sensibilites

if image is “everything”

does that not judge

the book by the cover

so many books

have nestled snugly

in my grip

from the tattered

paperback

to the pristine

hardback

in a designer

jacket

truth be told

the smoothly worn

paperback

well loved by

a previous reader

dog-eared pages

notes penciled in

make it evident

the love shared

with another reader

kindle be dammed

intimacy with words

demands pages I can turn

kindle will not

soak up my tears

nor dribbles of café

and will not sit quietly

on a shelf

awaiting discovery by

future generations

it will lie in a landfill

with other toxic “disposables”

a casualty to latest technology

bisous,

léa