Your Favorite Poems

Soon · 06-03-2010, 03:39 PM

Common Magic

Your best friend falls in love
and her brain turns to water.
You can watch her lips move,
making the customary sounds,
but you can see they're merely
words, flimsy as bubbles rising
from some golden sea where she
swims sleek and exotic as a mermaid.

It's always like that.
You stop for lunch in a crowded
restaurant and the waitress floats
toward you. You can tell she doesn't care
whether you have the baked or french-fried
and you wonder if your voice comes
in bubbles too.

It's not women either. Or love
for that matter. The old man
across from you on the bus holds
a young child on his knee; he is singing
to her and his voice is a small boy
turning somersaults in the green
country of his blood.
It's only when the driver calls his stop
that he emerges into this puzzle
of brick and tiny hedges. Only then
you notice his shaking hands, his need
of the child to guide him home.

All over the city
you move in your own seasons
through the seasons of others: old women faces
clawed by weather you can't feel
clack dry tongues at passersby
while adolescente seethe
in their glassy atmospheres of anger.

In parks, the children
are alien life-forms, rooted
in the galaxies they're grown through
to get here. Their games weave
the interface and their laughter
tickles that part of your brain where smells
are hidden and the nuzzling textures of things.

It's a wonder that anything gets done
at all: a mechanic flails
at the muffler of your car
through whatever storm he's trapped inside
and the mailman stares at numbers
from the haze of a distant summer.

Yet somehow letters arrive and buses
remember their routes. Banks balance.
Mangoes ripen on the supermarket shelves.
Everyone manages. You gulp the thin air
of this planet as if it were the only
one you knew. Even the earth you're
standing on seems solid enough.
It's always the chance word, unthinking
gesture that unlocks the face before you.
Reveals intricate countries
deep within the eyes. The hidden
lives, like sudden miracles,
that breathe there.

Bronwen Wallace

(p.s. the last poem I posted is by L. Cohen; forgot to put the author!)

Thread Tools
Show Printable Version Email this Page
Display Modes
Switch to Linear Mode Switch to Hybrid Mode Threaded Mode

06-03-2010, 03:39 PM	#9
Soon Infamous Member How Do You Identify?: femme Relationship Status: attached Join Date: Dec 2009 Location: . Posts: 6,896 My Photo Gallery Thanks: 29,046 Thanked 13,094 Times in 3,386 Posts Rep Power: 21474858	Common Magic Your best friend falls in love and her brain turns to water. You can watch her lips move, making the customary sounds, but you can see they're merely words, flimsy as bubbles rising from some golden sea where she swims sleek and exotic as a mermaid. It's always like that. You stop for lunch in a crowded restaurant and the waitress floats toward you. You can tell she doesn't care whether you have the baked or french-fried and you wonder if your voice comes in bubbles too. It's not women either. Or love for that matter. The old man across from you on the bus holds a young child on his knee; he is singing to her and his voice is a small boy turning somersaults in the green country of his blood. It's only when the driver calls his stop that he emerges into this puzzle of brick and tiny hedges. Only then you notice his shaking hands, his need of the child to guide him home. All over the city you move in your own seasons through the seasons of others: old women faces clawed by weather you can't feel clack dry tongues at passersby while adolescente seethe in their glassy atmospheres of anger. In parks, the children are alien life-forms, rooted in the galaxies they're grown through to get here. Their games weave the interface and their laughter tickles that part of your brain where smells are hidden and the nuzzling textures of things. It's a wonder that anything gets done at all: a mechanic flails at the muffler of your car through whatever storm he's trapped inside and the mailman stares at numbers from the haze of a distant summer. Yet somehow letters arrive and buses remember their routes. Banks balance. Mangoes ripen on the supermarket shelves. Everyone manages. You gulp the thin air of this planet as if it were the only one you knew. Even the earth you're standing on seems solid enough. It's always the chance word, unthinking gesture that unlocks the face before you. Reveals intricate countries deep within the eyes. The hidden lives, like sudden miracles, that breathe there. Bronwen Wallace (p.s. the last poem I posted is by L. Cohen; forgot to put the author!)