Nocturnes: At Thirteen Milller Court

The memory is like violins in chamber music.
Her boots, and most of her clothes covered mine on the floor.
The softness and warmth, the delicatest friction,
of her sheer white stockings transcended even imagined fiction.
Her otherwise nakedness enfolded me, a comfort
against November's pervasive, damp chills.
Before I knew her, this life had always been
slanted, gray, prospects of November's insidious chills.
Now each kiss scattered the sky's clotted clouds
revealing the stars:   thank God, the same ancient stars.
And their celestial motion, east to west,
seemed to become invited and propelled
by our bodies' playful, gentle, choreographed collisions---
back and forth, up and down, side to side:
the right ascension and declination not only
of pillows' and sheets' disarray, and the bed's dimensions,
but of the constellated glory outside and above.

 

Starward

Author's Notes/Comments: 

The rhyme in the third and fourth lines is a wink, of sorts, to those readers familiar with some of my other poems and the delights I have attempted to record verbally in them.

 

This poem came to me, unbidden, between 6 and 7am EST this morning.  I did not listen to any music while writing it, but during the revision I did have Boston's finest song, "More Than A Feeling" on You Tube.  I have no idea if that is significant or not.

 

The actual inspiration of the poem is T. E. Hulme's "The Embankment."  Some assert that he, not Ezra Pound, invented the Imagist movement.  Some assert that he, not Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot, invented the Modernist movement.  I believe I agree with that, as his poems, like those of J. V. Cunningham and, most specially, Wallace Stevens, were not taught in the English Department at Wittenberg University when I was there (1976-1980); the department than being in the clutches of the two dead men, Pound and Eliot.

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