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