Picture Of A Woman (Winner Commended Award, KSP Poetry Awards 2015)

If I could paint a picture of a woman

I’d paint it all over the sky,

I’d make her eyes so stunning,

that grown men would cry.

I’d make her hips so rounded,

I’d make her hair so free

that every struggling artist

would say “come and paint for me!”

I’d make her legs so wicked

I’d make her lips so round,

that aeroplanes would panic

and fly without the sound.

I’d make her arms so silky,

her back a golden arch,

the military would whimper,

forgetting how to march.

The people would employ me,

a dollar for a peek,

saying “make this woman perfect,

she’s everything we seek.”

And I would paint with gusto,

and splash the colours true,

her lips like streaks of crimson,

her eyes like azure blue.

They’d pay me when I’d finished,

saying “do it once again,

we have to have her up there,

this perfect kind of femme.”

And I would go home lonely,

forgetting how to cry,

thinking “why was it so easy,

to paint her ‘cross the sky?

“My memory won’t falter,

my brushes they will keep,

I’ll go to bed so silent,

and paint her in my sleep.”

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

enraptured by 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.

In My Lover's Eyes

In my lover’s eyes and in my lover’s art,

I saw the tulips rise, and rise above her heart.

And in rich despair like no moon could ever hope to keep,

I kissed her on the mouth and watched her gently sleep,

I watched her mountains gaze

and sank beneath her raging fire,

I cruised along her silent maze,

and dove into her mad desire.

And from a distance far beyond

her hips became a song to me.

She touched me ‘till her eyes grew fond,

her hair was soft and long to me.

And when the moon was fully gold

and dancing made me tender,

I prayed until my heart grew bold

with Godly love to send her.

Since There Was A Love

Since there was a love

and since our hearts combined

and where the dance was dull

the golden fleece entwined,

And where the dust was glazed

the oceans were intense

the sunlight was amazed

the moonlight was immense,

We drifted into song

and bled our hearts to sea,

and since the night was long

I gave my heart to thee.

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