Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Priest of Poetry

for Soroya

Have I taken a vow
of poverty for my art?
Reading sacred texts
and holy men, I do not doubt
that I have become a priest
of poetry.

"I am a nun to theatre,"
she muses.
There is passion in her eyes,
her concentrated gaze
peering into me.
I am naked.
“Then I am a priest of poetry,”
I smile back.
“How poetic,” she says,
emptying her coconut porter.

Years of celibacy, it seems, carved
on belts, silence in the church
of my mind.

I give my life to you, poetry.
I will scrawl notes in your margins.
I will paint cathedrals with words.
I will take communion every day:
it is with the breaking of the spine
of the book that we remember you;
it is with the drinking of verse
that we remember you.
I will sweat rhythm,
sing stanza, whirl dizzily.
I will stand on the street corner,
shouting the names of the dead.

I am a priest of poetry.
I carry my bible with me everywhere,
mumbling its incantations
to the wall.

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This work by Scott Stewart is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.

Monday, May 30, 2011

The Bus at Night

The drink of the night --
caressed and stumbling.
Slurred meth and lost teeth.
I watch the honey pour out
on hand tattoos and missed stops.
The eyeliner smudged, the eyeliner
questioning like language.

A body of winkles, a face
of aged crevices, the weathered
blankets below the eyes --
those shallow creatures of quiet remorse.

A man enters the bus, removes his bags,
and puts on a very large, black mustache.
He stands and looks at his reflection
in the glass.

Another pours whiskey into a half
empty coke can. The bus
stinks of the stuff.

A body shakes violently impatient.
She carries a bouquet of flowers
with her everywhere.

The scent of her fabric
stays with me through the night.
The weave of her skin:
braille to my fingers.

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This work by Scott Stewart is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

While

While the boy sucked on sugar cubes
while Susan huddled under the bridge out of the rain
while Thomas doubted
while the bus driver watched in disbelief
while the husband thought of nothing
while the stench of peanut butter wafted up
while Penelope wandered the streets looking for love
while hundreds and hundreds of ants invaded
while Joseph became irritated by triviality
while mustaches quivered
while Megan poured cereal into a rather large bowl
while french fries fried in a grimy McDonald's
while rest area restrooms were closed for renovation
while a hungry bear searched for food
while the villagers played soccer
while Johan cuddled the kitten he found in the ditch
while the planets kept spinning and the universe expanding,
I prayed for an end to this poem
and you hoped for resolution.

Creative Commons License
This work by Scott Stewart is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

Poem While Listening to Sergei Prokofiev's Piano Concerto No. 3 1st Movement

It begins, the light shines through the window.
Stronger still, she holds me and reverberates my song.
I can feel the life now, at the root of her tongue.
The harvest is quick. No one remembers my name.
She calls out to me and I do not call out to her,
it is useless and sad against the bark of the tree.
The mechanism of love rings truth to bathe in.
Our passion (though hidden) is naked before God.
Yeses and noes play a seesaw of formation.
Little by little, little by little: acquiesce.
The spring has come and love come undone,
this is the act of creation: acquiescence.
The mouse finds its home, the mouse finds it home.
The mouse does not find its home. I am home.
Running slowly downstairs uncovers nothing.
Running quickly upstairs shows, thankfully, nothing.
I am a rabbit of melancholy. She is the ocean.
Deeper now, deeper still, the legs of a chair.
Rustic winds and the underlining forgotten metaphor.
Wrestling with or against the ebbing tides,
I am an overturned apostrophe.
She steals glances of my broad smile.
There is quiet now, the light still shines through the window.
It started with a pace and more than halfway through it continues.
There is a dance we are reconstructing, an old dance
of placid grass in the rain. I am home.
She hums the same tune she has hummed for years.
I listen apprehensively, making notes here or there.
It reminds me of jazz, but I do not dare mention it.
My eyelids are heavy now, but my heart beats strong.
She tries to tickle me. I am not ticklish,
but I pretend to be because it brings her delight.
There is another swell, then movement again.
Breath.
Then silence.

Creative Commons License
This work by Scott Stewart is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 3.0 Unported License.