Wednesday, March 24, 2010

While Looking At My Hands

Always there has been this reach
And its limits
Ringless, jointed, feather-fingered--a hand
Not meant to be kissed or touched
Instead it touches
Fingers curled
Salve for the broken, sweet-teared, salted cheek
A living bandage
Folded neatly, unfolded, folded again

And it appears too often patient
One can see the patience
Filed nails, smooth, imperfect
A cared-for invitation
Patted and plumped, dusted and swept
Surely, a god creates a shape as this
Meant to be cherished---ahh
Man should love not worship
A child often does
But, even more than this
This hand may know
The significance of being made for real
And not for show

©2010 all rights reserved

While Looking At My Hands stephanie pope,

from Reaching For The Felt Sense: The Handedness of The Handless Maiden

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

No Water

Every pore
on certain nights
only that art— Thou

and each of us
become awakened
too, imaginally

and contemplative
more and more
Steven’s necessary angel
like the old moon of yore

root upon itself
and of itself
participates again
in nature here

a way to live
the image held
like the god
or goddess

first beheld
a truth
not a human one
loosened in the seem

is the bridge between
what they said and did
nothing to imitate

no water
that art— Thou

©2010 all rights reserved

No Water stephanie pope
Matter & Beauty Poetry Series, ©2010

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Waiting For Zero

I love that ‘lessness’
like now when its
less than flashing
the scarlet
already struck
tell me where
is the neon
life of the
closest bar

oh, there you are
scarlet and whiskey
my two favorite shades
blown and streeted
in sheets of rain
impaled to the pavement

is that less
than a flashing field
of poppies floored in
traffic glued to red
waiting for

the turn
the change
the night

and the point
nine, nine, nine
is making
at the pump

three faces
three gods
one life

a space
that dreams

©2010 all rights reserved

Waiting For Zero stephanie pope
Matter & Beauty Poetry Series