|Under the Moon|
One of My All-Time Favorite Poems: "Under the Moon" by John Wieners
Well, everything sucks right now, pretty much. So let's read some poetry for a combination of therapy, catharsis and inspiration (inspiration in the beauty of the poem; it is exquisite.) "Under the Moon" is a poem by John Wieners, published post-humously in the book "A book of PROPHECIES" edited by Michael Carr. This book was rescued from the archives of John Wiener's papers, and I'm so grateful that it was, because it has meant everything to me.
When will love come
with all the dreams
I have worshipped, again
its players blind, stalks in
without being asked
takes us in its arms for a little while,
then let’s us drop, after so short a time,
leaving us broken, weeping on stones.
After the sunlight afternoons, what then,
the midnight paramours, in fleabag tenements,
oh yes, what then is left to do, where to go?
Oh god, what has become of me, where is the self
that used to flock to bars, always seeking
for the partner, gone, turned away.
Then it happened, all of a sudden, you were there
in various guises, on the dance floor, in the back room,
piercing the gloom with cigarettes, movie theatres,
and theatre stubs, always alone, you were there,
after the theatre, greeting me in the lobby, on the elevator.
Now we are alone, in separate parts, and countries.
Who will bring us together again?
Most of my love life has been spent in longing
yet you the most real of all, and the shortest, remain
to haunt the penthouses, and chaumieres, with champagne
and three course dinners.
You have a melody,
that is the waltz
that imbues sex with meaning and love. Standing before the hearth,
in pink and black pajamas, with a light behind your head,
when you speak, or extending your knees backward to the log fire
I built, for the first time, arriving in the middle of the night
by cab, to the deserted chalet we rented for the summer.
How sweet it was, an ideal situation for us to bloom through
Yes, our health was bad, and we had too much money.
Keeping away from town, without car, or phone, or clock.
Our luck, to run out of
what was it?
You had other things to do, other places to be, other men to love.
And I was not enough, you were my first