Maybe This Woman

Maybe this woman, whose
beauty is unsurpassed,
in her dress,
eats figs.

Maybe this woman, whose
beauty is uncharted,
with a lilting walk,
carries lamps.

Maybe this woman, with
lips like petals, and hips
like mountains, likes her
men naked and shy.

Maybe this woman, pure
in the moonlight, evil
in the day, carries stories to
the lost.

… whose lips are like mountains, whose
hips are like petals, speaks in
seven languages, and knows
seven words for “forgiveness”
and six for “love”.

Maybe this woman, whose
eyes are like jade, whose
knees are like turquoise, whose
arms are like curtains,
was once a girl playing with
shadows, wanting to know how
men turn to dust.

Maybe this woman, in my
bedroom, like some rare form
of electricity, whose
heart is like bravery, whose
lips are like ghosts, whose toes
are like candles, whose hips are like
diamonds, will kiss me
twelve times
till I fall asleep.

Letter To Samantha

A letter to Samantha could say this:
your eyes are like dark caves,
in each cave is a meditator.
Each meditator conceives of god and emptiness
yet wants to kiss you even more
than I.

A letter to Samantha could say this:
my mind is like a maze,
in this maze is a guitar with no strings.
Each time you look at me
a song writes itself and spills over
the stars and the dawn and the moon.
Each time you breathe a child is
born laughing.

A letter to Samantha could say this:
you move like a dove in ecstatic revelation.
You sing like Africa in love.

I’m not in Africa
But I am in love.




© 2011 Danny Gunzburg

Song To Her/Song To Him

I’m lying where the creatures feed,

the shallow hope, the urgent need,

and in this pool of crippled dreams,

I carve a night of stifled screams.

She’s gone, she’s gone,

the song’s so bare,

her graceful eyes

are everywhere,

the moon, the snow,

the mountains creep,

the gods of silence

watch her sleep.

And somewhere on her moonlit brow,

she brings her past into the now,

she talks of loving songs and death,

you rent a bedroom on her breath.

She takes you where the vision sings

of caterpillars, birds and kings,

and if she sees you one more time,

you’ll write a poem made of wine.

You’ll call until her locks of hair

are spilling moon-dust everywhere,

you’ll call until her eyes grow dark,

and ghostly shadows raid the park.

But in your bedroom soft and plain,

she’ll mispronounce your tattooed name,

…collect the speeches in your head,

and write a song to him instead.

© Danny Gunzburg 2012

I Walked

I walked amongst the fever,

collapsed beneath the palms,

and spoke a silent prayer,

beyond your crazy arms.

But winter made me silent,

and summer made me crave,

and loving made me tremble,

but kissing made me brave.

We spoke a dream in sadness,

and sang a violent song,

we preached the bible’s madness,

but knew that we were wrong.

And something made me honest,

not work and not career,

the simple fact you loved me,

when all your heart was here.

© 2012 Danny Gunzburg

Seek Me

Seek me through the terror

seek me in the snow

seek me when the angels

are kissing down below.

Seek me from a country

seek me from a view

seek me when accountants

are quantifying you.

I tried to take your sacred hand

to realms of common wonderland

your heart was golden, roaming free

from shrieks to small eternity.

And in the art of lying wild

we kissed and then conceived a child,

she shone beneath your hidden womb

and made a rainbow in your room.

Seek me in the mirror

seek me in the wind

seek me when depression

is fortified then thinned.

Seek me from a window

seek me from a place

where seven hundred shadows

are dancing on your face.

It’s true I thought your name was king

when laughter cut through everything,

but now it seems your heart is closed

and I must rue the song I chose.

Seek me from a painting

grant me one reprieve

kiss me on the mountain

then turn around and leave.

© Danny Gunzburg 2012

I'd Love To See You Naked

I’d love to see you naked,

your curvature of spine,

your face the work of painters

who’ve met with the divine.

Your art the hum of tremors

that shake this very earth,

your mouth a shock fantastic,

like Eden giving birth.

I’d love to see you naked,

and film you from the back,

and touch you like a vision

that’s had a heart attack.

Your neck a twisted forest,

your arms a lake supreme,

your legs like beams of summer,

your hair like silk serene.

I’d love to see you naked,

your skin like hidden veils,

I’d write you like an artist

who’d kiss you if he fails,

and sing you like a mountain,

and paint you like a dove,

and move you like some music,

composed in tragic love.

I’d write you like a singer,

it wouldn’t take me long,

and you could be the dancer

entitled to my song.

I’d love to see you naked,

my body rich and fair,

and I could write your poems

with you just standing there.

© 2012 Danny Gunzburg

Anything, Anyway.

Any way she loves me, that is still okay,

of all the things we ponder,

trouble and regret,

there’s nothing that can capture

the work of earth and clay,

so anything we ponder

that is still okay.

Anything we capture, loving and the rain,

loving and the whisper,

poems in the brain,

of faith that can’t believe me,

and gods that hide their name,

of gods that work so simple,

and faith that vows to stay,

anything we capture,

that is still okay.

Anything we mirror, trouble and regret,

nothing seems to matter,

nothing seems to stay,

something seems to shudder,

something seems to sway,

why does work endanger

a life I can’t obey?

Anything we mirror,

that is still okay.

Any way she loves me, any way she stops,

any way she finds me

on the mountain tops,

fools me and accrues me

feeds me and entraps,

spins me and begins me,

levitates our laps,

any way she sings me,

anything she’ll say,

loses and then wins me,

leading me astray,

any way she rocks me

any way she stings,

any way she hates me

any way she sings…

Any way she breaks me,

on the calmest day,

any way she loves me,

that is still okay.