Cabin
There is a place in Maine,
near Belfast, where the oaks
trundle up to the oceanside,
fifty feet of shattered rock
separating soil from surf.
The cabin sits behind
that rock, the clearing hewn
some years ago, the house
built, then, two rooms
and shed, then added
onto later.
This place. This
is where I want you.
Let me carry you inside, show you
wood and varnish walls, oaken floors
worm smooth with centuries
of footsteps. The desk, the bed
walnut carved
within this house and never moved.
Through the door, the kitchen
cast iron and wood stove
two chairs, an ashtray
made of stone. When the house
was built, there was no shower;
the builder’s wife, waist-length hair
bunned up, stood naked
in the washtub as he poured
lukewarm water over her
washed her back with hands
calloused from carving.
Now building codes have intervened,
a bathroom added, papered
and electric, running water.
Some things, though, never change.
Undress, expose your body
by the flicker of the lantern
step into the tub
and close your eyes.
Let me wash you
in the water we have heated
touch your back
with calloused, trembling hands.
Cold
The motel room this morning
I woke up
and all traces of you were gone
I kissed the sheets
where your musk scented them
took a tape
you’d left on the TV
and looked for you
shivering
in February morning air
your apartment was empty
your scent absent
your favourite stores
the bus stop
our corner booth at Tiffany’s
all were air-conditioned
in the chill
and you were in none
I left another message
pulled the blankets close
sat down to wait
for your call
Phillipe Soupault Wouldn’t Have Done This
I wish
I could smoke
in these grey
academic cages
or that this crowd
of harried housewives
and eager idealists
practicing Art
could meet in a bar
biweekly
instead of being outcasts
like the great wretches we read
who go to Cabaret Voltaire
and drink absinthe in the rain
pass folded papers
and scrawl drunken notes
we sit in our cells
and watch the war
in the Persian Gulf
write dry lyrics
to dead times
stroke old wounds
on new battlefields
comfortable and dry
I want to go
to the dream
of white-eyed
engineers and
headache pills
who talk.
Come with me
walk through the rain
to a little restaurant
on the corner
of 13th and Pine
we can eat
and talk
and write
bars down the street
to drink in
cheap hotels
for quick liaisons
when the pen
is sapped of ideas
and the air!
Dark, smoky,
filled with falafel
and feta cheese
perfect place
to write and talk.
Illicit lovers tryst
by the window
read each other’s
poems palms
and psalms to sex
in the corner
a skinny artist
with rimless glasses
looks up, looks down,
sporadic scribbles
intertwined with bites
of falafel sandwich
watches the lovers
(yes, even Starving
Artists can afford it)
who are engaged
in nothing but themselves
first exchange
of poems takes
all their concentration
they look up
and laugh
and kiss
Phillippe and friends
wouldn’t have hated it,
I think, not like
this antiseptic room
pen strokes paper
pulls purrs
of lust and moonlight
from the fibers
lovers wrestle in between
and tigers roar
rivers run
the moon dies
its nightly death.
Shrove Tuesday
Lost and running, searching for you,
I am crushed by mountains.
Seeing you is pain,
A pain of too much honey tinged with blood.
Goddess, I cannot look at you
over rivers, or sunlit lakes. I cannot
demand your presence, no more than I could
see your face by staring at your hands.
Even kiss me once, my goddess,
let me feel your lips on mine, your perfect
Lips of honey tinged with blood.
Inky Interview Special: Poet (& Noise Maker) Robert Beveridge, from Akron, Ohio
Poetry Drawer: A Lesson in Composition by Robert Beveridge
Poetry Drawer: The Drowned City by Robert Beveridge
Poetry Drawer: To Be or Not to Be by Robert Beveridge
