Azaleas on Fire by Gabrielle Langley available through Sable Books.
Poet Asks Forgiveness of the Night
Forgive me, Night
if I am dressed in a gown
of midnight silk.
I have sewn myself
with invisible thread
so as not to compete.
My skin has learned
to wear its bruises
this vanishing display
of blue and purple.
Forgive me
if I have taken
a secret name
that I will speak to no one
not even my real father.
It happened when
I first learned to pull
diamonds
from the folds
of my skirt
and by this I mean
that diamonds are made
only under great pressure.
Forgive me
if I am my mother’s daughter
woman of many lovers
woman of long hands
radium skin marbled blue
woman so beautiful
that I sometimes wonder
if my own lover
dreams of her.
Forgive me
if I am distracted
by another dream
where black snakes slither
in a field of rain-soaked violets.
Forgive me
if I have trained myself to wake
precisely at midnight.
It is because
I have learned how to write
my poems in the dark.
It is because
I have learned to
cast things in silver.
It is because
I have mastered
the art of astronomy.
It is the art of crying tears
into the shape of stars.
Forgive me
when I decide
to wear these stars
as a crown. (Sable Books, 2018)
Birthstone
My conception
must have been
early June
in the month of pearls
and weddings.
My father said
it happened
on his birthday.
(I like to imagine)
it was after the cake
and champagne
in a pale blue bedroom
that he swam
the length
of my mother's
moon-white
skin by candlelight.
I was born
nine months later
out of wed-lock
but as they slept
his fingers woven
into the waves
of her long black hair
I'm told she dreampt
of an aquamarine.
(Houston Poetry Fest Anthology - 2017)
Narcissus
Flowers
in January
something of me
left
in your world
something
small
white
narcotic
indolic.
If ghosts
carried scent
in their rising
from the earth
this would be it
this smell
not quite
jasmine
tuberose
civet
or musk deer
but something
very close
to the smell
of your skin
in the rain.
Yellow-centered
stars
clustered
hovering
on tall
wet
emerald
stems
you will find them
in the damp silver
morning fog.
When I am dead
bury me
here.
Bury me
beneath
pine needles.
Plant me
with narcissus bulbs.
I want
to wake again
three months later
in your world
a small
paper-white face
standing
slender
in the cold.
A green wisp
of nothing
thin pale feet
tiny roots
that cling
to a wet
black earth.
One tiny
wildling
who will
still
sing you
a love song
in the middle
of a freezing
rain.
(The Wild Word, Berlin, March 2018)
Poet’s Bio: Fragments
My mother was a fashion model.
I was born in Houston, 1961.
"What do you want?!!!
Go play in the other room!!!”
Once-upon-a-time, I painted Easter eggs with my mother.
She used to put me to bed with a poem.
(Today there is a book of poetry hidden in the desk drawer of my office.)
The bombing of Dresden turned a city
Into a nightmare of molten lava.
My father was born in Germany.
His dreams return to me in fractured pieces.
I would be lying if I told you this was making me happy.
When it is quiet I don’t want to think about anything.
I cannot tell these secrets;
They are deep blue, mysterious
Like poems trapped in the quivering depths of sapphires.
I would rather be in a Paris apartment
Overlooking the Boulevard St. Germain
Misting white orchids
Sipping a flute of Veuve Clicquot.
The blind see the shadows of flowers in their dreams.
For them, it is like tasting coffee and chocolate.
It is like hearing the whispering of stars in other galaxies.
(Eunoia Review - 12/31/2012)
Istanbul, 6:00 am
From a sky of minarets
the call to prayer
pierces sleep.
The coupling of two
caged doves
a dark
and a light
the sound
of beating wings
an asymmetry of feathers
ignores the wire cage.
They whisper in the language of birds.
They have their own prayers.
In the Turkish country-side
brown sparrows
dance on pebbles.
There is a garden table
a breakfast
of walnuts
and dates
the sound of cold crisp apples
sliced, falling to the plate
wet with their own juices
light pale gold
crumbs of a sweet bread
fall
at the feet
of an old man's chair.
He sips his tea
and marvels
at the constant hunger
of birds.
(Houston Poetry Fest Anthology - 2015)
Berlin, May 1945
für Lotte und Louise
Into the ruins
on hob-nail boots
the Russian soldiers
marched
prowled
the rubble
wolf-bristled
foam-mouthed
hunted down
the youngest
the prettiest
made her pay
for Hitler
for Stalingrad
for a hundred flowering
linden trees
uprooted
splintered and sold
for firewood
for the wild game
that fled Tiergarten
the venison and rabbit
the crack of a rifle
stones cried
battered roses
blackened-red
the Russian boot
his knife
her dress
ripped silk
shredded crepe
the signs
on broken pavement
the stains
soaked into concrete.
(Red Sky: poetry on the global epidemic of violence against women, Sable Books, 2016)
You and I Were Born in Different Countries
Yours was the face
I painted as a child.
Even before my birth
I held your image
engraved
on the inside
of a tiny body.
It was all written out
in a language
I could not understand.
It will be decades
before we finally meet
and by now
we are already
married off
to strangers.
We will pretend
we do not know each other
but the lines that you wear
on your face today,
those same lines,
they were traced
into the palm of my hand
a long, long time ago.
So I often wonder
how things might have been
if we had grown up
in the same country
speaking the same language
Spanish or French
or if perhaps
as children
we learned
to speak some other
secret language
a private language
of our own invention
and in this other language
might you have invited me
to play at your house,
invited me for birthday parties
or to help you christen your brand new
Ultra-Deluxe chemistry set
(And what explosions might have followed
if we had not been under the grown-ups’ watchful eyes?)
Or would you have come to play at my house
games of make-believe
among countless dolls
and highly-breakable-English-tea-party-sets?
Would you have watched me playing dress-up?
Would you have laughed when I twirled endlessly
in my mother’s forgotten taffeta gown
one small girl
gathered up
in that massive swirl of
shocking pink?
Would you have thought me pretty then?
And when my father started throwing chairs
would you have sat beside me
in that sound of breaking windows?
Would you have calmed my racing pulse?
Would you have whispered fairy tales?
Or if we had both been born
in your country
we might have played
hide-and-seek
in your father's coffee fields or
ridden the acreage
on two matching horses
the color of espresso
the feel of velvet
through countless rows
of wet green leaves.
And if I had been with you
when Revolution came
when opposing sides severed
fathers from their first born sons
when the enemy came and captured you
I would have been the one
to shield you
with dreams
would have been the one
beautiful enough
to distract enemy soldiers
to turn the heads of prison guards
just long enough
for a love poem
or some other
silk-ribboned message
to find safe passage
through the iron bars.
I would have smuggled
the very best candies to you
sweets so exquisite
they would have made you taste
our kisses
and the taste of this dream
would fill you with
Courage.
These are the things that would keep you
Alive.
And with these dreams
you would know
you were going to live
Forever.
So wherever you are at this very minute
I write this to you now
so you will feel me next to you.
I write so you will be assured
I always carry a love-letter.
It is written in a secret language.
It is a letter that spells your name.
And somehow, I will find a way
to bring you chocolates and marzipan
cinnamon and Christmas oranges.
I write to let you know that
whatever prison you find yourself in today
I am waiting for you here
just on the other side of the wall.
I am here, waiting
lighting a candle against the dark.
(Harbinger Asylum, Spring 2015)
Poet Asks Forgiveness of the Night
Forgive me, Night
if I am dressed in a gown
of midnight silk.
I have sewn myself
with invisible thread
so as not to compete.
My skin has learned
to wear its bruises
this vanishing display
of blue and purple.
Forgive me
if I have taken
a secret name
that I will speak to no one
not even my real father.
It happened when
I first learned to pull
diamonds
from the folds
of my skirt
and by this I mean
that diamonds are made
only under great pressure.
Forgive me
if I am my mother’s daughter
woman of many lovers
woman of long hands
radium skin marbled blue
woman so beautiful
that I sometimes wonder
if my own lover
dreams of her.
Forgive me
if I am distracted
by another dream
where black snakes slither
in a field of rain-soaked violets.
Forgive me
if I have trained myself to wake
precisely at midnight.
It is because
I have learned how to write
my poems in the dark.
It is because
I have learned to
cast things in silver.
It is because
I have mastered
the art of astronomy.
It is the art of crying tears
into the shape of stars.
Forgive me
when I decide
to wear these stars
as a crown. (Sable Books, 2018)
Birthstone
My conception
must have been
early June
in the month of pearls
and weddings.
My father said
it happened
on his birthday.
(I like to imagine)
it was after the cake
and champagne
in a pale blue bedroom
that he swam
the length
of my mother's
moon-white
skin by candlelight.
I was born
nine months later
out of wed-lock
but as they slept
his fingers woven
into the waves
of her long black hair
I'm told she dreampt
of an aquamarine.
(Houston Poetry Fest Anthology - 2017)
Narcissus
Flowers
in January
something of me
left
in your world
something
small
white
narcotic
indolic.
If ghosts
carried scent
in their rising
from the earth
this would be it
this smell
not quite
jasmine
tuberose
civet
or musk deer
but something
very close
to the smell
of your skin
in the rain.
Yellow-centered
stars
clustered
hovering
on tall
wet
emerald
stems
you will find them
in the damp silver
morning fog.
When I am dead
bury me
here.
Bury me
beneath
pine needles.
Plant me
with narcissus bulbs.
I want
to wake again
three months later
in your world
a small
paper-white face
standing
slender
in the cold.
A green wisp
of nothing
thin pale feet
tiny roots
that cling
to a wet
black earth.
One tiny
wildling
who will
still
sing you
a love song
in the middle
of a freezing
rain.
(The Wild Word, Berlin, March 2018)
Poet’s Bio: Fragments
My mother was a fashion model.
I was born in Houston, 1961.
"What do you want?!!!
Go play in the other room!!!”
Once-upon-a-time, I painted Easter eggs with my mother.
She used to put me to bed with a poem.
(Today there is a book of poetry hidden in the desk drawer of my office.)
The bombing of Dresden turned a city
Into a nightmare of molten lava.
My father was born in Germany.
His dreams return to me in fractured pieces.
I would be lying if I told you this was making me happy.
When it is quiet I don’t want to think about anything.
I cannot tell these secrets;
They are deep blue, mysterious
Like poems trapped in the quivering depths of sapphires.
I would rather be in a Paris apartment
Overlooking the Boulevard St. Germain
Misting white orchids
Sipping a flute of Veuve Clicquot.
The blind see the shadows of flowers in their dreams.
For them, it is like tasting coffee and chocolate.
It is like hearing the whispering of stars in other galaxies.
(Eunoia Review - 12/31/2012)
Istanbul, 6:00 am
From a sky of minarets
the call to prayer
pierces sleep.
The coupling of two
caged doves
a dark
and a light
the sound
of beating wings
an asymmetry of feathers
ignores the wire cage.
They whisper in the language of birds.
They have their own prayers.
In the Turkish country-side
brown sparrows
dance on pebbles.
There is a garden table
a breakfast
of walnuts
and dates
the sound of cold crisp apples
sliced, falling to the plate
wet with their own juices
light pale gold
crumbs of a sweet bread
fall
at the feet
of an old man's chair.
He sips his tea
and marvels
at the constant hunger
of birds.
(Houston Poetry Fest Anthology - 2015)
Berlin, May 1945
für Lotte und Louise
Into the ruins
on hob-nail boots
the Russian soldiers
marched
prowled
the rubble
wolf-bristled
foam-mouthed
hunted down
the youngest
the prettiest
made her pay
for Hitler
for Stalingrad
for a hundred flowering
linden trees
uprooted
splintered and sold
for firewood
for the wild game
that fled Tiergarten
the venison and rabbit
the crack of a rifle
stones cried
battered roses
blackened-red
the Russian boot
his knife
her dress
ripped silk
shredded crepe
the signs
on broken pavement
the stains
soaked into concrete.
(Red Sky: poetry on the global epidemic of violence against women, Sable Books, 2016)
You and I Were Born in Different Countries
Yours was the face
I painted as a child.
Even before my birth
I held your image
engraved
on the inside
of a tiny body.
It was all written out
in a language
I could not understand.
It will be decades
before we finally meet
and by now
we are already
married off
to strangers.
We will pretend
we do not know each other
but the lines that you wear
on your face today,
those same lines,
they were traced
into the palm of my hand
a long, long time ago.
So I often wonder
how things might have been
if we had grown up
in the same country
speaking the same language
Spanish or French
or if perhaps
as children
we learned
to speak some other
secret language
a private language
of our own invention
and in this other language
might you have invited me
to play at your house,
invited me for birthday parties
or to help you christen your brand new
Ultra-Deluxe chemistry set
(And what explosions might have followed
if we had not been under the grown-ups’ watchful eyes?)
Or would you have come to play at my house
games of make-believe
among countless dolls
and highly-breakable-English-tea-party-sets?
Would you have watched me playing dress-up?
Would you have laughed when I twirled endlessly
in my mother’s forgotten taffeta gown
one small girl
gathered up
in that massive swirl of
shocking pink?
Would you have thought me pretty then?
And when my father started throwing chairs
would you have sat beside me
in that sound of breaking windows?
Would you have calmed my racing pulse?
Would you have whispered fairy tales?
Or if we had both been born
in your country
we might have played
hide-and-seek
in your father's coffee fields or
ridden the acreage
on two matching horses
the color of espresso
the feel of velvet
through countless rows
of wet green leaves.
And if I had been with you
when Revolution came
when opposing sides severed
fathers from their first born sons
when the enemy came and captured you
I would have been the one
to shield you
with dreams
would have been the one
beautiful enough
to distract enemy soldiers
to turn the heads of prison guards
just long enough
for a love poem
or some other
silk-ribboned message
to find safe passage
through the iron bars.
I would have smuggled
the very best candies to you
sweets so exquisite
they would have made you taste
our kisses
and the taste of this dream
would fill you with
Courage.
These are the things that would keep you
Alive.
And with these dreams
you would know
you were going to live
Forever.
So wherever you are at this very minute
I write this to you now
so you will feel me next to you.
I write so you will be assured
I always carry a love-letter.
It is written in a secret language.
It is a letter that spells your name.
And somehow, I will find a way
to bring you chocolates and marzipan
cinnamon and Christmas oranges.
I write to let you know that
whatever prison you find yourself in today
I am waiting for you here
just on the other side of the wall.
I am here, waiting
lighting a candle against the dark.
(Harbinger Asylum, Spring 2015)
