Two Loves
by Barry Frauman
The first of my heart is quiet, certain
and serene as all the Buddhas.
When I err, when for a fraction of a second
I am not quite honest, the motion of his eyes,
their change of light, point back the truth to me
with no less love than in our perfect harmony.
He is my soul.
My other love insists there is no soul
there is no God
there is no human life
outside the robot masses of our time
stampeding all his words into my brain;
yet deep within, his fury seeks affection:
In a crowded café, not too gay,
he cornered me with a hug;
and then one night, good-bye at his door,
he beamed when I kissed his beautiful face
The eyes of my soul are in white white skin
under jet-black hair.
He is young-tree slender and elastic,
shoulders open and embracing
even when his arms are down.
The breeze nestles in his thick black thatch,
dreaming of eternal June, and he has
the soul of a tree in young manhood,
sometimes playful, more often stilled
in the half-smile of serene growing.
Fat, he says. That's a laugh,
short wiry devil-dark mustache,
eyes of gray lightning.
Hello to you! Yes to you!
From all my soul to all my soul
I call to you.
You are the tree in whose branches I nestle,
the lightning will not strike.
Your faults are like a summer shower,
soon to dry away.
Leaping to your feet? still fast asleep? Thinking of you, wondering how you are, I wake up late and slowly Sunday morning, glasses on the table from last evening stilled into the memories of fun now silent, mostly empty, they'll sit out the hour or two until I get to them. Ever think of weekends you were here? We've showered music breakfast yes or no, it doesn't matter all that much, we've had our sexy talky turbulence. I won't approach your nakedness now, tempting though it is, but will instead anticipate a lingering good-bye. What are your plans?
The greatest number of people,
whose kin are family-tree,
would not understand my joy in you,
beloved keeper of our light.
I have small knowledge of your pre-adulthood,
I did not see the steps you took
to form the inner workings of your life,
a discipline so perfect and serene,
that you should be an emblem to us all.
You grow and thrive around a core of stillness,
a happy silent purity
toward which my restless spirit stretches endlessly.
You never come to me to show confusion,
but work a trouble through then hail me
to share your joy in hard-won resolution.
Ten A.M. Sunday thunderhissing discoblitz
you shut the door against the din so we can talk
you rage at years of sexual repression
your lightning strikes the wordhouse you have built
as shelter from the storms you generate.
I lash past your downpouring sentences
to bring my love to your intelligence
and turn your storming elements to sunforce.
Burning tired your head falls on my shoulder
still you say you do not feel love
it's no right now, maybe not forever,
but firmly for this time you back away
You let me rant about the world's nonsense,
then you embrace me.
Better this way you say in the labyrinth
of bar-and-bath nightmerchant anonymity.
Better this way than learning in the hurt
of amorous friendship somehow gone awry
Remember the time you stayed during the week?
I'm sure it was December snowy rainy
muddy morning grumbling down to work.
The sidewalks were snowed up,
we made the bus-stop walking in the street.
The night before I'd lain down at your side,
though I still mourned the parting of another.
As we were trudging slave-like in the grayness
toward the hopeless obligations of the day,
I felt my guilt glide up into my throat.
With gentle indirection you forgave.
Your compassion that sad day gave birth
to the sweet closeness all our own
that keeps us free of all the cushioned traps
the gray Decembering world sets
to ground the flight of those who love.
"I've never felt... whatever you mean," you say,
"but that's alright, I live from day to day.
If somehow I could change, that would be nice,
but I don't count on anyone, OK?"
In front of your house good-night, I'll call you soon.
Our hug is long and strong,
and always with the imprint of your face,
you touch me in my quiet tender place.
Barry Frauman is the author of numerous short poems as well as several extended verse narratives. His work has appeared in the NewTown Writers' Off the Rocks as well as in the 2004 Gay Pride issue of the Windy City Times. His poem "Best Man" won Honorable Mention in the 2003 Ontario Poetry Society sonnet contest. Currently, he is working on Lionheart, a verse narrative inspired by the life, loves, and lusts of King Richard I of England. Barry is the director of the NewTown Writers' Literary Workshop.
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Photo by Robert Klein-Engler |