by John Engman
That was the very room that we made
famous with our love, where our souls flew,
crying out and sighing. And that was the room
in which I wrote about her in my dreamy logbook,
thinking a few pages of blue ink would do the trick.
That was the very room in which, the wonder of love
is how I put it, the wonder of love and I succumbed
to the law of physics and all of her beautiful moves.
“Well, you’re sure nobody I would pick from a crowd,”
is how she put it, and gave me a look that ate me
slowly as a poem, no wondering allowed.
And blah, blah, blah.
Thankfully, I will never be one of those
who expect too much from a poem, who want the poet
to explode before he goes, leaving the rostrum draped
with glitz. Thankfully, I will never kill time by striking
a pose: malcontent who dreams too much, sullen fugitive
beneath the amber lamps, prince from a fallen regime.
And I don’t have to go around sobbing uncontrollably
in public places to get my point across-that is
for those who want cheap thrills and headaches,
the personal touch. Let them read prose.
Of course, any young poet
should be able to describe a room,
a few pages of blue ink in a spiral notebook.
Any young poet should be able to describe a room
so poignantly it makes your eyes wet and you continue
reading with heavy sighs. But remember, there was a girl
on the bed, and we were in love, and the room was dark-
I really wasn’t a poet yet. Sure, there should have been
a villanelle in her every move, her every look another
blank page torn from the moon, but my mind had a hole
worn through it by her touch, and the funny thing is,
I don’t remember much. Oh love, you crack me up.