The following poem is really a song that seems to be playing in my mind tonight/this
morning. I can't really say I can hear it per se....just that I can feel it as a song...I
can hear it sung by Carly Simon and/or James Taylor. Strange. Doesn't follow any poetic
meter or structure...not that l think all poetry should. I suppose my other list has me
thinking...just what makes a poet? What can be considered as doggerel and others as
distinct and prized poetry? I don't know. Does ee cumings fall into any set category? How
about Sylvia Plath. We are, after all, a poetry list. Let's get our caps on and discuss
this before I go completely mad with the inner ramblings of a wanna be poet. Goodnight.
Every naked body l see
Only seems to remind me
Of just what we used to be
So nice to be embraced by you
And I know you felt it, too
Now the pain that holds me tight
Each and every damned cold night
Burns my soul and steals my sight
Your love wrapped me up so warm
A refuge hidden from the storm
So good to feel, so nice to taste
Now it's all gone, all a waste
Dry cold ash is my repast
And every love I try and feel
Only seems to remind me
Of just what we used to be
Love's repose stays fleetingly
August 7, 1999