Not A Poem (For Thea Rosamund Caromy Martin) This is not a poem, this a kiss: Pure joy, pure hope, pure passion between lips: True God, from true God, pure light from pure light. Warms you through the night, ends all dreams. You've always known this kiss exists. Loves you completely, from the first, Shares every chimera, every wish when you wake, Honours your best, forgives your worst; Loves you at a moment's reconnaissance of your olive eyes and sizzling lips, cerise; your finespun frame and golden breast, wrapped in red-ribbon and jet jacket, vested in genius wit, in words that tease and strip to Thea Rosamund Caromy Martin: soul, mate - sagacious, conscious, correctly proud not to be pathetic At your worst, you are God's church: the sinfully rapturous sinews of strength that fit, no, furbish your summer dress as I walk with you, along the criossette and cannot hide under your Annie Hall hat the masterpiece you read in me or the heart in you saying yes that yeilds to kindness because it is kind and cannot camouflage with the ice of a gifted mind your wisdom once unheralded: girlish intuitiveness that always understood the universe, in your smile, scent and kittenish purrs; nor the wisdom won in bloody battles, of the woman exalted: by the pervading pulse and secret sighs of your soul's home, you speak the truth alone: melted musical, sprinkled manna; merry mouth, lovely, salted sores of centuries, little sugar droplets ceaselessly stirring while I shiver beneath the cinerous sky, under the hovering torrent that worked its way inside. So how could you not notice I am still student? still convict on last ship to Australia, lying low in soup kitchens with cats just coolin' to escape college or gallows; yet, in your visionary grasp, suddenly I've outgrown my in-jokes to be on quest, mote jueste, for a signature grail for a word to rub and heal your poor, tired feet, hammer a nail, sling an axe, bow to bride, if words such as these are truly more than poetry to unlock a kingdom's chest or spin the gold of your breast: not words at all but your kiss in my kiss and, again, your kiss. all that is me is yours: my reach in rivers overflown my fingers in your hair, my face in your hands, my heart thumping hard at your soft, soft centre of self. This kiss is not a clanging bell, it is music. This kiss is not an infidel, it is tantric. This kiss is not science, it is mystic. This kiss always listens before it speaks. This kiss is not a patriarch, it is holy spirit. This kiss is karma: Life giving to life, goodness giving to goodness, giving back safely all magic and bliss that began in the moonlight of the Petit Majestic Is life's rich marrow, yesterday, today and tomorrow: Slow and serene, it melts but never goes away This kiss does not possess, does not scream, "Me!", never asks if its happy. It just is. This kiss waits peacefully and authentically: in celebration, the act of love, without condition, without risk. © J Harkness 2005
Reason for writing:
Thea
Birth sign: Sagittarius
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