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badger11

Taormina

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badger11

revision3

 

I gaze across the piazza -
you're lounging there with your girls around
a table shaded away from the crowd.

Your daughters share a glass as though vines
will tempt to promises. They blossom like butterflies -
flutter towards a claret red sky.

A wall lizard loiters in the dimming light -
its pulsing distracted by your lime green blouse.
It gathers thirst.

You're perusing the stanza
that Keats, ever brimming, penned only for me -
beading my eyes with wine and foolishness.

Without a pause you look up, sensing
lust through the blush of rosé, and as you wave -
a hillside of vines are pearled with light.

 

 

=================================================

 

revision2

 

I gaze across the piazza -
you're lounging there with your girls around
a table shaded from the Sicilian sun.

Your daughters share a glass as though vines
tempt to promises. They blossom like butterflies -
flutter towards a claret red.

A wall lizard loiters in the shadow -
distracted by your lime green blouse.
It gathers thirst.

You're perusing the stanza
that Keats, ever brimming, penned only for us -
beading my eyes with wine.

Without a pause you look up,
sensing lust through the blush of rosé, and wave -
a hillside of vines are pearled with light.

 

=============================================================

 

 

 

revision1

 

I gaze across the piazza -
you're lounging there with your girls around
a table shaded from the Sicilian sun.

Your daughters share a glass as though vines
tempt to promises. They blossom like butterflies -
flutter towards a claret red.

A wall lizard loiters in the shadow -
distracted by your lime green blouse.
It gathers thirst.

You're perusing the stanza
that Keats, ever brimming, penned only for us -
beading my eyes with purpled bubbles.

Nonchalantly you look up,
sensing lust through the blush of rosé, and wave -
a hillside of vines winking as if wedded with light.

 

 

===============================================================================

 

original

 

After the cool cellar I clear cobwebs
out of my eyes and gaze across the piazza
to find you lounging with your girls around
a table shaded from the Sicilian sun.
Your daughters share a glass as though joy
will overwhelm their minds with secret vines
that tangle limbs and giggles and promises -
moths or butteflies, maybe two queen bees!

A wall lizard loiters in the shadow -
perhaps distracted by your lime green blouse.

It gathers thirst. You're perusing the stanza
that Keats, ever brimming, penned only for me
to bead these river'd eyes with winey bubbles
winking with joy. Nonchalantly, you look up,
sensing lust through the blush of rosé, and wave -
a thousand river wrinkles run with light.

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David W. Parsley

Ah, a nice reference to "Ode to a Nightingale" there: one of my favorites. And the right connection to evoke the elusiveness of the desired figure, the inaccessibility. I like the notion that she senses and acknowledges the gaze of the yearning watcher, senses the "lust." A fine ambiguity that could be an admixture of so many things: the intuition of lovely women who understand and casually appreciate their litany of admirers, mistaking the narrator's interest, which is anything but mere lust; or she does understand it is something more this time, but there are her girls with her; or perhaps there is an existing relationship that will never be more than it is, though she nods to the unrealizable potential; or... A rich poem, which does what poems do best: evoke the moment, suggest the possibilities, and leave so much to the fortunate reader.

Thank You,
- Dave

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badger11

Thank you David for your insightful reading.

 

much appreciated

 

badge

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David W. Parsley

Congrats, Phil, on the publication. I like the published version. It is cleaner but I miss the reference to Keats, though I acknowledge that the phrasing needed to be tightened. Perhaps another revision...?

 

Best Regards,

- Dave

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badger11

Perhaps Dave. I would keep the Keats reference for myself at least, but I'm aware not to prop a poem by direct reference to one of the Greats!

 

all the best

 

Phil

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