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Poetry Magnum Opus

Little Miss Morimoto (final version)


dedalus
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Silence

is the ultimate response

to impulse, to importunity,

casting its veil, a cloudlike mist

over lost opportunity.

 

In the pressing heat of long summer days,

amid sonorous sounds of morning cicadas,

an icicle pierced, a splinter, a knife,

into the centre of my life. Winter weighed in:

and as a frozen apple on a frost-whipped tree,

so died all feeling between you and me.

 

Your eyes, your smile,

the eternal feminine mystery,

returning, returning, recharged

with each cycle of human history.

 

The daily e-mails,

the archives of non-dawning day:

nothing, nothing could match their wonder

nor match their sense of play. Now

there are no e-mails at all.

 

Dear sweet girl.

 

Your black sparkling eyes,

your body like a bolt of thunder!

We met in June, parted in July,

and at times I can only wonder

why O why these things

come down like summer storms?

 

The approach of love

is as sudden as a flight of birds

over a morning lake, a rustling

of wings over stillness,

the descent again into silence.

 

We had affection, yes,

a certain style, a languorous grace;

but when I reached out for your heart

there was nothing there, an absence,

nothing but an empty space.

 

Silence

is the ultimate response

to all the things we hope for,

to all the things we fear,

to all the things we cannot understand.

 

When you die, sweet girl,

as we all must die, a kaleidoscope

of images will flash, unbidden,

across your agéd, your withered brain,

and of our time, this pulsating summer,

no memory will remain.

 

And that will be the final end.

That will be the end. But will it?

Long after you and I are dust and clay

some earnest future scholar may

unearth this poem, and recall

the beauty, the cruelty of it all.

Drown your sorrows in drink, by all means, but the real sorrows can swim

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