Already Forgotten Poem, Love Poem Already Forgotten
I thought of it while I was lying in bed
not yet sleepy,
but sharing the same schedule of
waking and sleeping
as that of my loved one
the best ever I think
not rhyming
no real beginning or end
but the middle part was clear
direct
better that those three words so overused
I and love and you
I considered creeping out
climbing out of our lofty bed
the creaking stirring her
her already sleeping
and so I repeated it over and over again
in hopes that in the morning I could rise and
write it down quickly
I found myself awaking to the alarm-clock
her already awakened
us both climbing down the ladder
her to the bathroom
and I to a pen and paper
scribbling down words in effort to remember
but it was an already forgotten poem
a love poem already forgotten
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January 15th, 2003
This is the second of a series of poems generated by my viewing
my website statistics and search strings. This one was created based
on the search string: already forgotten poem love poem already
forgotten
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Time Together (SSProject 1)
Let us empty our pockets and sell our things.
Redeem moments we have trampled upon
and do we have though of but never done
name the items we merely call things
Doing is better than thoughts or dreaming.
Let us count our blessings we hold in ourselves
subjects not of want or ghostly aperitions
But mushy facts, places, faces, the redundant dreaming
A subject we cannot get over quickly.
Because we are always in the present thinking forward
of tomorrows and chances, what-ifs and should-it-happens
our numbered days as sand falling ever so quickly.
No more time-saving notions as they buy us no extra time
no more setting the clock forward convincing ourselves
of minutes more than what we have or borrowed or own.
Let us then count slowly, spending in priceless conversation, our
time.
Together.
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December 4th, 2002
This is the first of (hopefully) a series of poems generated by
my viewing my website statistics and the portion of the statistics
devoted to "what people were searching for when they found
andreawilkinson.com" This one was created based on the search
string: empty our pockets and disappear
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She No Longer Writes On Walls
She no longer writes on walls
as when I first met her.
I remember the pen-scratched poems on
kitchen-wall tiles
newspaper bits stuck with collate
"good lines" underlined or highlighted
(the same color highlights around the world)
She no longer writes on walls
as I have done once in my life.
Perpendicular to my laying in the bed
block letters spoke unconvincingly
trying to convince myself, "I want to write."
Which could have been,
"I want to do art" or
"I want to become a better person" or
"I want to learn to eat raw vegetables"
Obviously out of a fit of passion,
but less so than her once persistent wall-additions.
They were not her words, of course,
they were borrowed versions--
And as I took the remnants down, scrubbed the tiles,
unstuck the tape, ripped some corners slightly
I saw lines of what had been, emerging.
squares of clean space, bordered by
grease and smoke and 5 years of living,
A void.
A small reminder, that she no longer writes on walls.
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November 25th, 2002
(not quite complete...though I rarely go back and edit)
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Different Planes
We are all adults
like children here.
smoking, having our morning coffees
some are minutes away from leaving
rushing for last glances
nearly nose to glass.
We're sitting packed at tables
hugging windows floor to ceiling
our heads turning in unison
to watch one after another
after another.
A large silver object leaves the earth
and for a moment we all take in a breath
a hush over the hum of its engines
marveling, all of us
marveling that us grounded humans
have learned to fly.
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November 15th, 2002
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The Beard
He speaks from his beard.
Almost as if the voice are the hairs
barely moving.
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November 14th, 2002
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Untitled
She didn't look nervous or calm.
But I wanted to tell her
there was nothing more to get...
she was no longer chewing nail
but skin constantly.
The skin that holds the nail
in place, cushions the fingers from impact.
Biting lengthwise, sideways,
the way the Chinese peck
the scaly flesh from chicken feet
until there is only bone.
I wanted to tell her to wait (two weeks)
But she inspected them over and over
again hands splayed in front of her face
the almost pruney fingers
damp, entering her mouth
making the soft noise of babies learning
they have a mouth/checking their gums for teeth.
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October 17th, 2002
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Sick With Traveling
I am sick with traveling
full of red lines on maps
it makes me forget to water my roots
as they have been torn up from home to
places. dots on every map or globe
the clay pot overflows from time to time
on holidays spent on old beds
walking on familiar dirt roads
buckling myself in an old white car
shaped like a jellybean.
the sickness has spread.
Languages enter my brain
fill the tunnel inside of my ears
and make me nervous, question myself.
Written on one hand--desire to settle,
plow a field, place myself there,
just deep enough to keep me from blowing over in a storm,
earn a wage, bloom in the spring,
and get thirsty during summer.
Written on the other--go go go,
see see see, the roads of the world
the veins and arteries beneath my skin.
My blood rivers and highways
spilling out with every nick and scratch,
paper-cut and stab with the paring knife,
Now learning to eat tomatoes with spicy mustard
like steaks, and vegetables consistently less cooked
and more crunchy.
I am sick with traveling
the radio voice speaking from somewhere in
Sierra Leon or from Budapest, New Delhi,
from Bush House Street in London,
Kabul, Brussels, Moscow, Los Angeles,
Sydney...a map on the wall with
language-specific names,
like Roma, Warzawa, Praha,
medical workers, teachers, politicians
who took off on a holiday
to find themselves no longer tourists,
but travelers.
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July 3rd, 2002
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Untitled
if there was something in your voice
it could be transferred in pressed pen nibs dipped in ink
if it had to be.
Scribbles even.
Nimble fingers pressing down plastic squares
with imprinted letters.
Enough if it had to be.
Of course it is best with
mouth-ear eye-eye elbows touching
conversation.
but if it had to be,
I would take all three.
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June 05, 2002
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w a r m
For moments unspeakable, beyond words
I can name you only by your
First name
When the moments are bigger than our grasp
much larger than the scales
with which we are familiar:
lands, seas, mountains, deserts, grains of rice,
even rows in fields and at all times of the day--the sky
We combat it with silence.
Silence so deafening that it hushes
the children on the street.
Even the cars slow and take the corner softer
than they would have before.
We dampen the air with stares
and touches,
with exhales
and with water in our eyes
of joy.
For moments unspeakable, beyond words,
I can name you only by your first name and
the word: w-a-r-m
When I am empty, single in the bed,
standing with all the proper clothing to keep me from snow.
You are what I lack.
Like sitting in front of an open fire with my face glowing
and pants and shirt minutes away from becoming flame...
the soles of my shoes surely melting.
And then the withdrawing to tent
to house, to room, to stream...
and the coldness of where the light has not been.
My backside, the hollows in the back of my knees,
the back of the neck,
even my heels, if possible.
You are that warmth.
My cheeks blistery and wind-blown,
the melting of frozen hands after a snowball fight
or the cleaning of iced-over windshields...
the climbing under the blankets in the dead of winter
a sweatshirt fresh from the dryer...
w-a-r-m.
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June 04, 2002
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For My Grandfather
No longer just living, but recording.
I have lived and absorbed without comment.
The memories stored and lost in cells that
live and work
beneath the roots of my hairs.
Careful when moments were too big to comprehend
or too simple to store;
I have lost opportunities and sentences by sleeping.
The grandfather who died before I could know him,
before I could remember him,
would notice things passed over:
spot cows in fields, or eagles on fence posts,
the subtleties of leaves changing color--
before anyone would say that it was autumn.
And passing it down and birthrights to the youngest grandchild,
he saved it for the child yet to be born,
then born.
it was me.
Favored to play with his hat un-reprimanded
favored to sit on this knee undisturbed
pointing out objects like matchboxes,
feathers, the difference between green leaves
and yellow.
26 years for the birthright to settle
like a sweater that, already washed and dried by accident,
fits like a charm...a second layer of skin.
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April 2001
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Untitled
She is my rock.
A Psalm.
Leaving behind the pages of text.
Psalms and prophetic, proverbs.
Reading her palms
Soft like processed American cheese
smooth like warm vegetable oil under my index finger.
Tracing her lines, the valleys of her outstretched palm
to find the truth.
I find it.
Not the answer of what comes next
but the answer of me.
She is a stone I hold at night
a smooth corner between my breasts
another in front of my lips—her shoulder
My arm cradling the belly of a boulder
settling down in the foam.
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December 19, 2001
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Untitled
We sleep like stacked towels
eat like empty barrels
touch like adulterers on a train
though sometimes as old cats
sleeping as pipes with sand--
We speak like woven cotton letters
to an ear
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November 9, 2001
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Independence Day
a blank sheet
filled with your body
of soft curves
and small dark curls
and long hair covering
the places where my mouth should go
where I fit
in-between the places where
your legs meet
where your limbs bend
where landscapes of skin
bear resemblance of places I have never been
a new home
made out of water and peat moss
wood and sand
accepting and withdrawing
accepting and withdrawing
soft sighs released from your gorgeous mouth
landmarks observed
the historical notations taken in
face placed there
and there
and there again, again
comfort in repetition
all of these things
new every afternoon
reborn every second
of every single day
of every single moment
as I find myself beside you finding myself
undeserving
of you
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July 2001
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Untitled
She is like warm toast with melted butter
Real butter and crumbs in our bed.
We don't let shoes touch our sheets
or empty our pockets there
(I have seen the contents of her coat pockets...
gum wrappers and "how did they get there?" bits of leaves.)
We don’t want street gravel
and leaf and wrapper.
Not there.
Not to mix with her stains of butter.
And me?
I am a recently warmed, day-old, sleep in,
missed-a-train had it been a workday, croissant.
Flaky skin, crunchy dry ends
Folds that reveal the soft and sweet,
The bright-spots of gold and unstirred yolk
the meat inside, uneaten cheese inside the mold
pieces of her in our bed
and me
crumbs of her, flakes of me
making nothing but dust
brushed to the floor
swept in a pile
dropped in a bin
holding out in a crack or a corner somewhere
indefinitely.
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Winter, 2001
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Eva Three
Every night as we fall into bed,
we set aside a whole day of missing.
Forgetting
the train pass left at home
the scarf on the floor beside the table
the coffee stained mug in the sink
Forgetting the missing
we did while we were apart—
during the hours that we busied ourselves
busied our hands in repetitive motion
filled our minds, packing the minutes with problems,
answers, a quick sting of distance,
back to translations, solutions
Every night as we climb into bed
we set aside a whole day of missing...
a whole day.
We have eaten dinner quickly, sipped our coffee
listened to the BBC on the radio
had an after-dinner cigarette
sifted through our hours apart,
and brought to light-life the moments worthwhile.
And now,
shedding our day clothes for skin,
we fall into shapes on the sheets—
sandbags, heavy
indenting the secondhand mattress
pouring out words like a sentence never-ending
"I love you. Same. I love you.
Will you marry me? Of course.
(we exchange rings for the twentieth time)
Do you like your new job? Love it.
(we laugh)
Like it. I love only You.
I could lay here with you for days on end. Agreed.
Tomorrow can you cut my hair? Sure.
(we have put this off for a week already.)
Tomorrow night lets go to bed at 11.
(tonight it was midnight or 1)
Morning is going to come so quickly.
Can you move your arm?
(she moves her arm)
Did you set the alarm? Yes.
We are so lucky. Fortunate. Blessed. All of the above.
Goodnight.
Kiss me.
(we kiss...our faces soft)
Another please. Ok.
Can I stare at you for awhile?
Do you mind if I stare back with my eyes closed?
(I laugh) No.
(Slowly she begins to mumble, jerk)
Are you asleep?" (said in a whisper)
Her breathing is heavy...long
One of us lies there, wide awake,
the other is now sleeping.
Every night as we sleep in our bed
we are holding on, storing away, recharging,
filling up
turning, but not tossing, memorizing details,
savoring bits and pieces to take in our lunches
to eat on our breaks
to fill the space between the problems and solutions
to last us through the parting, the busy work,
and then the reunion.
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November 14, 2001-12-20
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Eva Two
In my pocket
sits a hair all curled up
nested between a layer of denim
two layers of lighter cloth
and warmed by my own
upper thigh
Curled there with lint,
gum wrapper, odd-sized unfamiliar coins,
cigarette box-top clear paper,
remnants of skin from hands in my pockets,
a fingernail not meant to drop
in the house of a friend...
the end of a pen.
I wear my jeans for weeks on end
until the jeans have a certain fit—too big
or the crotch faintly has a
female smell from monthly visits
and toilets with no paper.
And there I am
wet from November rain
from Sint-Lukas to Brussels North
slightly shaken/shaking
wishing I were home...
Love song on the radio headphones
and a whistler
same-o-same-o
hands in my pocket—dirty jeans
and a hair emerges.
Curled up and keeping to itself
but now between my
thumb and forefinger.
Emerges untangled—a line from my pocket
cell upon cell of you.
Before we knew each other perhaps.
Or "knew" before we "know" now.
Overshadowing the wet and the cold
the temperature I must multiply
and divide to understand myself.
You.
I will save in every way possible.
And as truth would have it,
you are saving me too.
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Fall 2001
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Eva One
You are like a sweet orange soda
drunk
from a glass bottle
by straw
and mouth
on smooth round glass
the last few drops
of spit and flavor
too much effort to reach
but I will try
to savor you until the
bottle is empty
no moisture inside or
out
except in the morning
dew collecting
on both of us
recycled in earth like
two precious old bottles
to a glass collector.
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Fall 2001
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The Egg Story
Today love is like scrambled eggs
meant to be hard-boiled
supposed to be hard-shelled
softer a layer under...
and a heart of green and yellow mush.
We were meant to be over-easy
two identities on the same plate
gorgeous, bright yellow mounds
white all around, crispy brown along the edges
individual.
But my whites are with her yolks
and vice versa—no separation
like dirty clothes
clumps of her and me together
with a shake of salt and pepper
milky
one serving, instead of two.
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Fall 2001
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Scent.
It's just one night past
last night
when we wore each
other(s)kin
pore against pore
the divots and curves and hollowed out
portions of us
mixing bowls and not-quite-sealed
containers
spilling out.
each one of us stirring and stirred
tearing, homonym tearing
caught in a movement
so much bigger than the day
before
even the hours before
and i said phrase after phrase
directly into your ear
of who and what i want you to be
to me.
and I choose
compliment
as my favorite
or perhaps "missing piece"
and tonight,
as you are sleeping in the
room I slept in as a child
I am denting the pillow we share
every night but tonight
and cherishing the faint
scent of you.
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May 24, 2001 at 1:06 am
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Scent.
It's just one night past
last night
when we wore each
other(s)kin
pore against pore
the divots and curves and hollowed out
portions of us
mixing bowls and not-quite-sealed
containers
spilling out.
each one of us stirring and stirred
tearing, homonym tearing
caught in a movement
so much bigger than the day
before
even the hours before
and i said phrase after phrase
directly into your ear
of who and what i want you to be
to me.
and I choose
compliment
as my favorite
or perhaps "missing piece"
and tonight,
as you are sleeping in the
room I slept in as a child
I am denting the pillow we share
every night but tonight
and cherishing the faint
scent of you.
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May 24, 2001 at 1:06 am
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Untitled
There is nothing like a chapped mouth
of two lips
not fully cracked, but not so smooth you lose them in a soft face
to the fuzz on an upper lip
or the curve of a chin
or lose the corners where the lips meet to form a cheek.
I have forgotten about the smell of hair
of pillowcase or worn shirt.
the warm dent in the bed
or how to move a hand so slowly
hovering over skin and pores
that it becomes unsteady
heavy, overwhelming
clumsy
This too is lost
How to outline the body with my fingertips
the ear like a sea shell
the back like Kansas with both hands flat
the legs like each side of a hollow California redwood
the feet like tired pedestals
the arms already outlining me.
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January, 2001
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When I see a pear I think of you
Pears.
She spoke of pears
the way I speak of doorknobs.
the way she said the word
and spoke in remembrance
her head slightly tilted
gazing far off
over my left shoulder
I knew
was there
remembered too.
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a random fragment about my friend Emrys
who wrote a story of the same title.
01/23/01 at 2:49 am
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Untitled
There are times
when the brief half-touches of
strangers
satisfies the weak or months
worth of touching.
The grating of fingernails on my palm,
the release of
change-
or knee against knee
while sitting on a sofa.
Bright light for a moment,
(or rather a dawning light)
the sensation of someone being there,
-the realization
that grows until the change of position.
The change having already been given,
or the crossing of legs.
Then the look to see if she too noticed
as I noticed.
But she is not shaken, as I am,
but oblivious.
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January, 2001
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Ceiling
At night I stare at Wyoming.
not a portion of the state
but all of it. Perfectly rectangular
dark green in the corner for a national park
red all over from highways that cut through
nothing but old land.
comparing maps
my country is the size of the whole world
Where states are no longer defined by color
but boundaries to country upon country
which each have stories to tell
histories
languages
airports to land in
currency with the faces of men and women
old land.
to stare at the world
I dangle my feet off the end of the bed.
pointing from guam to new republics
named since I learned them in school.
I stare at words unpronounced and
place my thumb over entire cities
and countrysides
where the cities
and farms have only one thing in common
old land
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January, 2001
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Untitled
I have been holding your flowers
since September.
Pressed between my license and a flier
-carried around for 3 hours-
from the time when I first found it
until I placed it
between
the mattress and the
wood.
I forget about it's being there,
the minuscule height it adds
to the left side of the bed.
I forget about it's having had
multiple dimensions
once,
instead of petal against petal
against petal
flat.
And you?
are there offerings beneath your bed?
Are you losing sleep?
staring at the map on your ceiling
as I am?
Or maybe you are sleeping peacefully
in a relationship or
solitude
content with the woman on your arm
or even,
Might you be
in love?
And someday we will love?
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Fall 2000
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for Lotta
You passed over me tonight
like fresh air and the scent of
you
like old friends and notebooks
scraps and sketches
and
my favorite word
joining together strings of words
once separate, now
side by side.
I miss
you and me
(now you
me)
there and here
instead of 6 blocks
or a cheap phone call
or a drive by
meet me in the upstairs classroom
where I learned
to admire you
like the friend you were
are still
only
now too far from which to
learn
and too far from which to
know again
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2000
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Whitfield Avenue
I have perfected the art of avoidance
Just the same to cross the street and offer greeting
a turning up of the corner of our mouths
He is an awfully thin man
with army issued glasses,
a warm hat with ear flaps
a bobbing walk
and a hunching standstill to wait for his two dogs to pee.
And me?
I am eager to look my part.
At night
he is writing a poem about me
or himself...
Where I am the thin man
with glasses and stocking cap
walking my patient, harnessed cat.
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Spring 2000
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Third Person
down there in that
box of a town where
one square still lives
as a downtown.
that is where my
fingers intermingled with
fingers and hair and
spit...
on the ground, the
sky is expansive
and from the air
there is no end of land
in sight.
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Fall 1999
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