Be Mine, Whomever You May Be + Letter to The Neverseen (poem)

kisses and sweet affection to all on this rainy Valentine’s Day

know that you are loved in some way
by someone, somewhere and count
yourself rich if you know love in many
ways and know it by many people

and now – a poem about love whether it exists
or whether you are still seeking it out there
amongst the parading faces of strangers . . .

Letter to The Neverseen

He says he translates me like medieval
pomegranate print nightgowns . . .
and I turn to him and mumble
hmmmm — let me taste that for a while,
let me run in that fantastic white frock
in dark and distant fields once dreamt
when i know only you are watching.
let me laugh under crystalline moonlight
let it cast the shape of my body
like a silver sword,
and let me wear the dew like earring cusps
and kelly green smoke perfume.

ok — you don’t have to touch . . .
you are the ineffable —
(but promise me you’ll watch)
as there is something i wish for you to see,
you may be
a seahorse, a starfish —
if it suits you,
if you wish.

And promise you’ll pay attention
when i turn from a saucer
to a dish,
and if i became a cup
would you rather me be a bowl?
would you find yourself drinking more?

i miss you in many ways,
i need you still more in others,
i learn you further, deeper every time
sometimes – i liken it to being . . .

looking out
over plankboard streets and cabinets,
sunlit holes in the concrete
trying to be windows,
vines and flowers spurting from crevasses
where water runs down into rusty red-orange lines
to meet the dirt
that is the road.
Hoops and barrels of silver day-water
and the dust tarnishes everything
even the day itself
cannot touch.

Baskets and tarps,
passage and carry,
cloth covered fruit in flesh-hued skin
and me in the window ledge with
the only foreign tongue
in a land, a time, sometimes foreign to me.

And you —
you walk down the dirtroadstreetconcrete
window light field
and speak my language
soft from the path below like a surprise
like a magic-hat rabbit boy-child
in dark good fur to curl upon for sleep.
And in the sun bath,
and under your leather shoes,
the stones talk about your approach
and i steel myself,
and the words are like lovemaking
and your voice resonates firm
in my sex and circling outward into
the shafts of my hair and fingernails.

And i find in the lightest, strangest
parts of my psyche,
of this world,
that i understand words,
that i am able to sew them finely together
and make beautiful shawls
and bedsheets.

I go here whenever I hear from you:
I compose the sugar and the sass
The Litany and profanity.

This connection:
2 birds
2 bellies
2 eternal voices
meant to find solace
and unity in creation —

2 pear halves passed
from deity to deity
on blue gilded plates.

you and i are these.


Great Expectations

“Chicka boom-boom,”
that’s what the old lady said
like an opening chant in Santeria,
bringing on the spirit of love/lust/desire in a man
with the sharpened hopes of seeing it all destroyed.
This is when you train a female to know
her supposed enemy, and assure her
to tear it down
is to win.

Masochistic Feminism.
No earth root sky there.
No Goddess bellies, no blood, no bread.
No offering of breast milk, no black honey.
No power in defeat.
No love in war.

It is what it is when you raise a girl,
for some, there is the other way,
like frosting a cake.
And you can add almondine
or strychnine to the batter
or you can leave her sproingy vanilla flesh
so the sweet perfume can find its way out.
Let her choose her own dressings.
Let her layer on what she will.

Not all of us are sweet.
Not all of us wear frosting.

Which brings me to ….
the old theme of neurotics in the suburban housewife.
went to see it once briefly. . . curiosity and the cat
and all that.
i have swum in those hip waders before
as did my mother before me.
Some of us choose the ironing board as our prayer altar.
Some of us get wise,
we devour the books and we breathe deep the intellectual stench.
and we are never the same.
we learn to accept our minor defeats
and escape our major trappings.
sometimes we gnaw off a few layers of skin
in order to run wild through the forest,
. . . but it grows back.

And some even say that this same tenderness
enables you to feel the next love to a greater extent.
if your flesh is open, you may certainly feel the warm breath of a lover
more distinctly at your shoulder.

Which brings me to you ….

i know this place in your life now,
i am no less or greater traveled than you
but i know this place . . .

darling, i wish so many things for you:
do know:
that i need your gorgeous inspirit dialogue so profoundly,
that yes, whatever body love chooses to live in,
whatever guise she chooses to wear,
whatever she means when she rises up
like nectar from the heart
and trickles from the mouth,
it is what it is when i say that i love you so fiercely
and always want to know where your growing pains are.
– i hope that this remoteness brings you your desired focus
or unfocus …
whatever it is you need this time to bring about the change.
– and this last wish has a bit for me too as we are always selfish
when it comes to magic genies,
— that when the change comes

i am still in there somewhere.

~ Andrea E. Janda