One Cigarette

No smoke without you, my fire.
After you left,
your cigarette glowed on in my ashtray
and sent up a long thread of such quiet grey
I smiled to wonder who would believe its signal
of so much love. One cigarette
in the non-smoker’s tray.
As the last spire
trembles up, a sudden draught
blows it winding into my face.
Is it smell, is it taste?
You are here again, and I am drunk on your tobacco lips.
Out with the light.
Let the smoke lie back in the dark.
Till I hear the very ash
sigh down among the flowers of brass
I’ll breathe, and long past midnight, your last kiss.

– Edwin Morgan

Postscript:

I was caught by the opening line – who wouldn’t be? And it builds in a quiet, unassuming tone of voice into this moving love poem without having to make fervid, sweeping declarations. I can imagine the poet quietly smiling to himself, smiling at himself, the depth of his emotion catching him off-guard.
You can read the other poem of his that we’ve run, Subway Piranhas, here. You can also read an interview with him here.

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Published:
April 7, 2011 – 08:00
Author:
By Madhu
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Joan of Arc

Now the flames they followed Joan of Arc
as she came riding through the dark;
no moon to keep her armour bright,
no man to get her through this very smoky night.
She said, “I’m tired of the war,
I want the kind of work I had before,
a wedding dress or something white
to wear upon my swollen appetite.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear you talk this way,
you know I’ve watched you riding every day
and something in me yearns to win
such a cold and lonesome heroine.”
“And who are you?” she sternly spoke
to the one beneath the smoke.
“Why, I’m fire,” he replied,
“And I love your solitude, I love your pride.”

“Then fire, make your body cold,
I’m going to give you mine to hold,”
saying this she climbed inside
to be his one, to be his only bride.
And deep into his fiery heart
he took the dust of Joan of Arc,
and high above the wedding guests
he hung the ashes of her wedding dress.

It was deep into his fiery heart
he took the dust of Joan of Arc,
and then she clearly understood
if he was fire, oh then she must be wood.
I saw her wince, I saw her cry,
I saw the glory in her eye.
Myself I long for love and light,
but must it come so cruel, and oh so bright?

– Leonard Cohen

Postscript:

The words and Leonard Cohen’s voice work so well together, I think. This and Hallelujah are my favorite songs by Cohen. Here’s a link to the song.

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Published:
April 6, 2011 – 08:00
Author:
By Madhu
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wishes for sons

i wish them cramps.
i wish them a strange town
and the last tampon.
i wish them no 7-11.

i wish them one week early
and wearing a white skirt.
i wish them one week late.

later i wish them hot flashes
and clots like you
wouldn’t believe. let the
flashes come when they
meet someone special.
let the clots come
when they want to.

let them think they have accepted
arrogance in the universe,
then bring them to gynecologists
not unlike themselves.

– Lucille Clifton

Postscript:

Lucille Clifton was a poet I whose first work I read was “The lost baby poem”, an unsettling work that talks about miscarriage. She isn’t all sturm und drang, though – for a delightful change of pace, look for “Homage to my hips”, running later this month.
As for this poem itself, it’s amusing on one level, sobering on another. It reminds me of an article I read sometime last month titled ‘No Toilet, No Bride’ that discussed how slanted even something as basic as access to sanitation is. More than a little ironic when you think about the ‘usual’ complaint of how long women take in the bathroom.

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Published:
April 5, 2011 – 08:00
Author:
By Madhu
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