and wrapped around her, a soft linen robe.

Love shook my heart
like the wind on the mountain
rushing over the oak trees.

Love makes me tremble yet again
sapping all the strength from my limbs;

bittersweet, undefeated creature -
against you there is no defence.

Come, I’ll have you know honeycomb before your mouth turns to grain…
This pleasure would make your tomb tremble….
I can show you this world and you’ll not be the same…..

Like the sweet apple
turning red at the top of the highest branch,
forgotten by the apple-gatherers – no,
not quite forgotten, for they could not reach so far,
like the hyacinth
on the mountains which shepherds tread under foot,
staining the earth with its purple flower.

Like Paris before Venus he ponders with the same
shallowness though he is not lacking
in anything. Nothing left
to chance, all angles &
apertures count.

Beautiful bride,
to look at you gives joy; your eyes are like honey,
love flows over your gentle face.

Forgetfulness
is cheap. Transformation,
once a lucky dip or spin
of the wheel? Rim
set to flame
it singes the dry grass as new vapour
sets the borders
to destiny.

I want neither
the sweetness of honey
nor the sting of bees.

My advice:
don’t disturb the jetsam.

Would you end up in the same place
if you let the hot iron of her touch
open you up?

Would you spend these long Atlantic nights
waking in the same urgent shadow
of things to say?

My words may only be of air
but they will always give pleasure.

The lady longs to set down her touch
and so far its only been women
who’ve told the tale.

For you, know that she honoured you…
and, most of all, delighted in your song.

I will show you what its like to see with seven eyes,
to look through the crystals of your breasts
and the five fish-eyed jewels of your vulva.
I will show you the wind in seven colours.
And the snow will reach you even in summer.

Now she surpasses all the women
of Lydia, like the moon,
rose-fingered, after the sun has set.

You’ll be a man-god, I will rip desire from your man-heart
and replace it with a season. If I be spring,
your new joy will be the feeling of spring’s plumed heart
burning your bronze-red leaves with great longing.
When men let go of wanting me, they feel loved. Realize
this quaint adulation, seated in the same-sexed chariot
of ever-increasing love.

The stars around the lovely moon
hide their brightness when it is full
and shines the clearest over all
the earth.

The nightingale is
the harbinger of spring
and her voice is desire.

When God made the jungles, and the highway of stars, and the
nightingales and the prairie grass – he first hid it all in a vagina.
After a while it spread down her thighs, up the lovely trunk
to the twin hills of her chest and the final settlement -
warm pigments of peach butter; glowing face
of the Immortal.

Her voice… far sweeter than any flute.
Her hair… more golden than gold.
And her skin… far whiter than an egg.

And wrapped around her… a soft linen robe.

They are made to touch themselves – women, to feel their way
around the womb of creation, to drink the scented ambrosia
of life’s immaculate form. The pharoah spent
gold on projects the peasants never saw;
Grand rituals, copulations of grace, moments
arrived like brilliant coloured guests without invitation.
Words, lithe nutrients for the scarlet sky, Breeze,
violet drapes, indigo shawls, together in Sense,
the only love capable of healing the bruised horns of men.

When the full moon rose
women took their place
around the altar.

Women once danced
beside a lovely altar,
their graceful feet treading down
the smooth soft bloom of the grass.

Her touch was not like the butterfly that lingered, not to him.
To her they were neither sisters nor lovers nor errors.
Critics died. Around the invisible pole, youthful mystics with
tongues like flower plots and joys that thrive like ivy. Mirror slick
with almond oil, bodies pressed together like gold tulips
inhaling the pollen of God, His zephyrous Will
crafted by the breath of Her loveliness.

The sweetness of your voice
and the thrill of your laugh, which have so stirred the heart
in my own breast, that whenever I catch
sight of you, even for a moment,
then my voice deserts me
and my tongue is struck silent, a delicate fire
suddenly races underneath my skin,
my eyes see nothing, my ears whistle like
the whirling of a top
and sweat pours down me and a trembling creeps over
my whole body, I am greener than grass;
at such times, I seem to be no more than
a step away from death.

A beautiful white mare runs parallel to the earth.
God’s glorious feminine bow, her great pacifying work,
when spite leaves her for a second
she spreads her luminous balm over the cruel dark of sexlessness.

Am I still longing for my lost virginity?

Copyright. 2009.

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sappho