Today's poet

[Mossdog]

Another Michael Meyerhofer... good sense of humour too it seems


Lessons in Sexual Attraction

Because my ex-fiancée fell in love
with the ass of a mocha-skinned soccer player
who came from Brazil to Northwestern,

ruled the field in his tight violet shorts
emblazoned with Willie the Wildcat
just one semester before she failed English

and switched to Social Work then
changed schools and met me, years later,
still talking about it: those buttocks

like a chocolate David. Her lips smacked,
left a pucker of burgundy on my wineglass.
Her girlfriends smiled, knowingly.

It was a dinner party, I’d been weight-
lifting for years. I asked was he a nice person.
No, they said. You’re missing the point.

Michael Meyerhofer

[Hes]

Ha ha ha...that's funny!!! I used to work in a dance college (ages ago) and there was one guy who was also a model and drop dead gorgeous. Every woman (and many of the men ) loved looking at him but when you actually talked to him he was incredibly boring and the attraction completely disappeared.

Another Michael Meyerhofer... good sense of humour too it seems


Lessons in Sexual Attraction

Because my ex-fiancée fell in love
with the ass of a mocha-skinned soccer player
who came from Brazil to Northwestern,

ruled the field in his tight violet shorts
emblazoned with Willie the Wildcat
just one semester before she failed English

and switched to Social Work then
changed schools and met me, years later,
still talking about it: those buttocks

like a chocolate David. Her lips smacked,
left a pucker of burgundy on my wineglass.
Her girlfriends smiled, knowingly.

It was a dinner party, I’d been weight-
lifting for years. I asked was he a nice person.
No, they said. You’re missing the point.

Michael Meyerhofer

[Alf]

A poem which quietly leads you on with a nostalgic smile on your face till you reach the final verse

Benevolence

When my father dies and comes back as a dog,
I already know what his favorite sound will be:
the soft, almost inaudible gasp
as the rubber lips of the refrigerator door
unstick, followed by that arctic

exhalation of cold air;
then the cracking of the ice-cube tray above the sink
and the quiet ching the cubes make
when dropped into a glass.

Unable to pronounce the name of his favorite drink, or to express
his preference for single malt,
he will utter one sharp bark
and point the wet black arrow of his nose
imperatively up
at the bottle on the shelf,

then seat himself before me,
trembling, expectant, water pouring
down the long pink dangle of his tongue
as the memory of pleasure from his former life
shakes him like a tail.

What I’ll remember as I tower over him,
holding a dripping, whiskey-flavored cube
above his open mouth,
relishing the power rushing through my veins
the way it rushed through his,

what I’ll remember as I stand there
is the hundred clever tricks
I taught myself to please him,
and for how long I mistakenly believed
that it was love he held concealed in his closed hand.

Tony Hoagland

[Hes]

Supper

You made crusty bread rolls filled with chunks of brie
And minced garlic drizzled with olive oil
And baked them until the brie was bubbly
And we ate them lovingly, our legs coiled
Together under the table. And salmon with dill
And lemon and whole-wheat couscous
Baked with garlic and fresh ginger, and a hill
Of green beans and carrots roasted with honey and tofu.
It was beautiful, the candles, the linen and silver,
The sun shining down on our northern street.
Me with my hand on your leg. You, my lover,
In your jeans and green T-shirt and beautiful bare feet.
How simple life is. We buy fish. We are fed.
We sit close to each other, we talk and then we go to bed.

Garrison Keillor

[Hes]

Ouch...that's a very powerful poem Alf.

A poem which quietly leads you on with a nostalgic smile on your face till you reach the final verse

Benevolence

When my father dies and comes back as a dog,
I already know what his favorite sound will be:
the soft, almost inaudible gasp
as the rubber lips of the refrigerator door
unstick, followed by that arctic

exhalation of cold air;
then the cracking of the ice-cube tray above the sink
and the quiet ching the cubes make
when dropped into a glass.

Unable to pronounce the name of his favorite drink, or to express
his preference for single malt,
he will utter one sharp bark
and point the wet black arrow of his nose
imperatively up
at the bottle on the shelf,

then seat himself before me,
trembling, expectant, water pouring
down the long pink dangle of his tongue
as the memory of pleasure from his former life
shakes him like a tail.

What I’ll remember as I tower over him,
holding a dripping, whiskey-flavored cube
above his open mouth,
relishing the power rushing through my veins
the way it rushed through his,

what I’ll remember as I stand there
is the hundred clever tricks
I taught myself to please him,
and for how long I mistakenly believed
that it was love he held concealed in his closed hand.

Tony Hoagland

[freckle]

Supper

You made crusty bread rolls filled with chunks of brie
And minced garlic drizzled with olive oil
And baked them until the brie was bubbly
And we ate them lovingly, our legs coiled
Together under the table. And salmon with dill
And lemon and whole-wheat couscous
Baked with garlic and fresh ginger, and a hill
Of green beans and carrots roasted with honey and tofu.
It was beautiful, the candles, the linen and silver,
The sun shining down on our northern street.
Me with my hand on your leg. You, my lover,
In your jeans and green T-shirt and beautiful bare feet.
How simple life is. We buy fish. We are fed.
We sit close to each other, we talk and then we go to bed.

Garrison Keillor

i love this poem...in particular the way he has captured how beautiful simple things can be, particularly when shared with another. nice one hes x

[freckle]

Wild Geese
Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of thing

[freckle]

Another mary oliver...new to the thread (i think) this time and an interesting reflection on the loss of what could have been...

A Visitor
Mary Oliver

My father, for example,
who was young once
and blue-eyed,
returns
on the darkest of nights
to the porch and knocks
wildly at the door,
and if I answer
I must be prepared
for his waxy face,
for his lower lip
swollen with bitterness.
And so, for a long time,
I did not answer,
but slept fitfully
between his hours of rapping.
But finally there came the night
when I rose out of my sheets
and stumbled down the hall.
The door fell open

and I knew I was saved
and could bear him,
pathetic and hollow,
with even the least of his dreams
frozen inside him,
and the meanness gone.
And I greeted him and asked him
into the house,
and lit the lamp,
and looked into his blank eyes
in which at last
I saw what a child must love,
I saw what love might have done
had we loved in time.

[Hes]

Have often pondered the 'could have beens' with regards to my father...sad, when as a more mature person and with hindsight, you finally understand what might have been done to make a difference.

Another mary oliver...new to the thread (i think) this time and an interesting reflection on the loss of what could have been...

A Visitor
Mary Oliver

My father, for example,
who was young once
and blue-eyed,
returns
on the darkest of nights
to the porch and knocks
wildly at the door,
and if I answer
I must be prepared
for his waxy face,
for his lower lip
swollen with bitterness.
And so, for a long time,
I did not answer,
but slept fitfully
between his hours of rapping.
But finally there came the night
when I rose out of my sheets
and stumbled down the hall.
The door fell open

and I knew I was saved
and could bear him,
pathetic and hollow,
with even the least of his dreams
frozen inside him,
and the meanness gone.
And I greeted him and asked him
into the house,
and lit the lamp,
and looked into his blank eyes
in which at last
I saw what a child must love,
I saw what love might have done
had we loved in time.

[Hes]

It captures perfectly me for me how I am currently appreciating the rare but simple moments that will become treasured memories.

i love this poem...in particular the way he has captured how beautiful simple things can be, particularly when shared with another. nice one hes x