(SR) FINALE: The Honeymoon
Overture
THE HONEYMOON
“Song is existence!” Rilke said, & so
Upon these anvil verses I shall pour
The trekkings of lovers to the Arno
Via the Salish Sea, to hear the roar
Of heaving Pacific; beyond the Po
To Paris, as a perfumed pompadour –
I’ll find a spot to finally repose
The compositions of my Silver Rose.
Thro’ all the Lothians by night we drive,
Parking at Cammo Hill; sparkling below,
In glittering Newyorkiness, alive,
An airport hums; as with an orange glow
The moon ascends, queen of the starry hive,
Distilling beams of silver – see them flow
Like warm mist over loch-face -, as we slept,
Dawn’s early glow-worms into spaces crept.
By sunrise we were up & soaring west,
When Sally went off a little psycho,
Grabbing my palms she press’d them to her breast,
& moist love-mound, whispering, ‘it’s my go!’
A minute later, rush’d, & half-undress’d,
We made the ‘Mile High Club’ over Sligo,
Then settl’d down, post-coitally sincere,
In snoozy, huggy, snugland, with a beer.
To travel foreign scenes, & there to write!
The best exhilaration of a heart,
Drawn like a mating insect to the light,
Seattle soon, as thro’ her skies we dart;
Raineir rises to surprising height,
Lord of this fresh frontier-post of mine art,
Like Ginsburg touring ‘Howl!’ in ‘fifty-five,
My visit, here, like scripture, might survive.
Red sun sets in the navel of the sky,
America! Feet touch thy soil at last,
Where Sally’s father waits with his wise eye
Intentions penetrating, holds me fast,
Where him brought up on whiskey, beefsteak, rye,
Fr me, Tetleys & Hotpots’ unsurpass’d,
Our hands interlock’d like docks take a ship,
‘Your daughter is my soul-mate,’ in the grip.
Ye Cinnamons of tranquil Snoqualmie,
Thy lineage with famous blood entwines,
From Kirkcaldy’s Reverend Gillespie,
To Colonel Daniel on the Rebel lines,
Whose daughter – Thankful – married happily
John William, then Cinnamon combines –
Unbroken branch of fathers’ sons, whose fate
In Sally’s father, here, did culminate.
O Puget Sound! Our long haul’s patient prize,
A Stillaguamish paradise, where on
Its silver strands, under changeable skies,
Warp-logs drift thro’ water-boiling salmon,
& birds by the bazillion share cries
In evergreen communion; blue heron
Like pterodactyls, patter into place
Upon those pastel waters’ perfect lace.
As mostly modern marriages divide
Sally’s mother is now a Waddington,
Into Snoqualmie’s river-vale we ride,
To read awhile in Duvall, Washington,
Thro’ North-West poets; Snyder by my side,
With Stafford, Markham, Kirzer & Skelton;
Then breaking, stroll the Valley of the Moon,
Where Sally’s folks once ruled the Silver Spoon
Out to Seattle, Sally, at first light,
Drives us thro’ wild, high woods, where birds rehearse
Songs ev’ry morn, where treetops launch a flight
Of plovers oer Si’ahl’s herbiverse,
Who soar & swoop oer skyscrapers upright
Above pre-morning’s sleepy streets of commerce;
Beyond them, unrestricted & immense –
Sea, sky, & mountains round us, like a fence!
‘Goodbye, my family, goodbye new friends,
Domani we take our love to Roma!
The first leg of this wed-adventure ends,
Me & Sally sitting in Tacoma,
Watching footy in Doyle’s Bar, as suspends
Our chronic distance, yon Oklahoma,
New York, Atlantic, Ireland & that sea
Where Ribble empties west of Bur-ne-lee!
A meteoric bolt in me instils
A city’s jazz, its booze, its free-from-care,
Soaring above Seattle’s seven hills,
A ptarmigant, unladen, in the air;
As little portals of an airplane fills
With blue-sky brilliance, Rainier rare,
Below us fronds of maidenwoods uncoil,
Planting our stalk of love in native soil.
Fanning the clouds, fresh from our visiting,
I felt as trav’lers do between the ports,
With past & future days inspiriting,
From molten rock we eke a living quartz,
When just to breathe in airfeels riveting,
& every soul, but ours,, seems out of sorts,
O! what thing it is to sing in rhymes
& be a poet, vital, to his times!
‘We choose to live, dear Sally, you & I,
From fateful meeting let us forge a tribe!’
She smil’d, across her glass-reflected eyes
Cloud-visions in the Heavens would enscribe
A memory of something, with a sigh,
Sh reais’d her glass, to delicate imbibe
Her glass of wine, as down her throat it swept,
From happiness within she wept & wept.
A thundercrack when poets meet their Muse,
When art & heartscape held in protection
By those fair willing never to confuse
Dreamy abstraction for disconnection;
To share a bed, to vivisect the news,
To lead life fully, & without dejection,
Are sacred to we poets, who settle
Like butterflies on a cherry petal.
Adventurous, voluptuous, my heart
With such excitement blazes, a lazer’s burn,
Affections of mine pulmonary art
Exploding at Italia’s return;
Too long my vision from thee set apart,
& many are thy fruits I’m yet to learn,
To tend those darker days where northern climes
With mists & moods dost ruminate my rhymes.
We meet again, dear Roma, let us flow
Thro’ galleons of streets, this time a gown
Of glories treading lightly in my tow;
I lead us to a pleasant part of town
Under the Piramide, a place I know,
Temple of ancient death, to gaze us down
Upon the sod which bones & ash enclose
Of Keats & Shelley, in a belle repose.
We spend an hour in Rome among the vaults
Of Papal saints & secrets never told,
Said Sally, ‘let’s avoid this crypt of faults
& fallacies, when faith just earns men gold;’
Together, as the evening star exalts,
We trip into the Termini, there hold
Each other’s hands, we step onto the train,
There find our seats, then tender-touch again.
Tipsy from our happy grappa tipples,
Sliding up the rail-glide to Grosetto,
All-at-a-once rain-drops burst in ripples,
Some jagged arrow-storm of inverno;
Chinks of blue; raincease; dear Sally’s nipples
Appear distinct, hair slick like water flow
Down canyon tract, when crags drink deep the flood,
Enough to rouse the wild dogs in my blood!
Castellammare della Pescaia
Was where we saw our first Italic night,
From the penthouse of the Casa Rosa,
A veritable temple of delight,
Slicing salami sulla terrazza,
Watching a lip-gloss sunset wash with light
The western skies, as underneath the waves
A perfect path to paradise impaves.
As pleasure is a pleasurable thing,
& love between two lovers yon reproach,
As into evening crickets sit & sing,
Our lips are warm, two moths about the torch,
With passions flashing on a febrile wing,
Her blushes fiery flushes in the scorch,
She yields that look, tho’ words were never said,
‘My Love, let us get naked, & abed!’
From wondrous lust to slumbers would we ease,
Woke with the sun up-thrilling from the hills;
On hitting twenty-seven sweet degrees
We pedal townwards on fine bicycles,
Thick cappuccinos quaff by yachtsman’s breeze
While shuffling thro’ our daily facebook stills,
Then looking up two pairs eyes of did meet
The stunning circlet of a soul complete.
The beach at last! A spot of sunshine sought,
Where the happy couples all befriend us,
& I prefer the sea to swim & float,
Unhassl’d by Rajasthani vendors,
We lay all day in luxury, then bought
Our wedding rings, like two young Eastenders
Shopping down Bow Market, post-engagement,
Before their inev’table estrangement.
For marriage, thought we, is a mere food dish
Looks good at first, tastes nice, then empty plate!
& renders lovers circling like goldfish
In a bowl of rancour, spite, & hate
Far better just to vow ‘I do’ & wish
The best of love without the stamp of state –
So we’ve decided, in the end, to be
Not married, but happy naturally!
She had said “yes,” but then she suggested
A better road, perhaps, was common law,
A bond of love by many tried & tested,
For in the end what is a marriage for,
But to keep in the guts food digested –
Now, with lush seawaves lapping at the shore
Up Sally stands, & skipping off to swim
Connects with me so sexily… so slim!
Sundrunk & tipsy, sky beryl with lace,
Waves mulberry porcelain, with a twirl
Emerges Sally; body, legs & face
Dripping with sea-droplets, each a pearl;
Love forg’d us as one, we kiss, & with grace,
A breathless moment as I seize my girl
& squeeze her tight, with one more kiss demand,
Lets move to silken bedsheets, from this sand.
Sally, fashionista of the Bon Ton,
Undresses like a Duchess by the sedge
Of some brook’s forest bank; ‘Until Heaven
Finds a better sky,’ say I, ‘my love’s pledge
Is yours,’ with a sultanas’ devotion
She smiles, sits down upon the quilted edge,
Pats down a level space for us to be
Flesh unified in breathless ecstasy.
My Pisan streets, how I return to thee,
This time a wife fix’d sweetly by my side,
That like a muse comes merrily to me,
Or is she you, who gaylie deified
My youthful verse, turning to poetry,
Ye urged me on the world to wander wide,
From Tuscan marriage; Muse I sense ye still
About my mind, my woman & my will.
From morning bag-packings, very frantic,
We dash to catch the train up to Pisa,
Sitting in sweet relief while romantic
Scenes flash’d either side, spear-point chiasa
Thrust from hill-towns, sounds of Sally’s fan-click
Expanding conscious thought… O, how these are
Days of dreams, copses on a barren plain,
Full flourishing with fruit in summer rain.
With married life one wins a daily fix
Of druggy love-rush; a fish in a net
Of rarefied deportment, what a mix
Of sex & sophistication, & yet
What an alluring, lascivious threat
To restful mind; but, when I get my kicks
No vision of saint, nor an angel smile,
Could out-shine her Sally Cinnamon style.
My Pisan streets, see, I’ve return’d to thee,
This time a wife fix’d sweetly by my side,
That like the muse came merrily to me,
Or is she her whom gaylie deified
Our youthful verse, & turn to poetry
The urge I’d won the world to wander wide,
Now back in Tuscany I sense ye still
About my mind, my woman & my will.
As step-by-step, thro’ memories, we trace,
A tour thro’ paragon, yet bygone, scenes,
My woman round my neck like fresh-cut lace,
We paid a train-fare, hills of Tuscan green,
Us pass’d thro’Lucca, at a carriage pace,
Then into Pistoia drew serene,
To mould new memories from molten gold
& thro’ my verses live them when we’re old.
Within a rolling ring of rising green
A city stands upright, the sunlit plain,
Where once conspiratoral Cataline
Did shake a spear at Rome’s eternal reign;
Into a weekend’s evening, with my Queen,
Walk’d on a gentle footstep, to obtain
Ambience, as Pushkin did thro’ Moscow –
Warm moments wash’d down with Casalbosco.
Thro’ shabby-chic, electric hub-hub wheel,
Our feet to some fallen Contessa’s suite,
This casa all so antiquated feels,
With books & art & beds above the street;
This is the shrine where all past heartache heals,
In all this blissful happiness & heat,
Where dressing well we, hand-in-hand, go out –
Pure love has bless’d us Sally, there’s no doubt.
We dine in narrow streets, old market cart
Goes clunking thro’ pack’d tables’, rosiness,
Of tender hand-strokes rarely far apart,
We savour flavours with a shared finesse,
‘Thou votary of Venus that thou art,’
Sang I, ‘let us commence our coziness…’
Sally’s eyes, with candour unremitting,
Agree to leave the seats where we were sitting.
With ribbons pink I hook’d her to the mesh
Of iron at the bedcrown; scarlet silk
Sheets aswathe naked skin, a Marakesh
Of tingling tongue-tips, spirits springing milk,
Her arching back, her tightenings of flesh,
Breathing freedom; & I, strong-antler’d elk
Above the glen her smooth, moist body made,
Where glisten’d sweatdrops in a faerie glade.
We slept tight-lock’d like gorse bush, limbs in limbs,
Then awoke in that contented glory
Which true love breeds; ‘like cucumber with pimms,
We just work, dear Sally, mia amore;
Here in this land of artistry & hymns,
Where love & heart rhyme – heart is cuore –
& poets; minds must focus on one thing…
His Muse who taught the Goddess Moon to sing!’
With vocab well-rehearsed I testify
‘Mia moglie e imbarazzato,’
I noticed Giovanni’s narrowed eye,
‘L’ultima notte ha commenciato
Sua mestruazione,’ paused I
For effect, a timely ‘inatesso,’
&, ‘adesso c’e sonno macchia
Sulla lenzuale,’ all said calm & clear.
Footfall in France, whose famous three-tone’d flag
Did hover oer the border, as we queued,
‘That guy’s got style!’ ‘How classy is her bag!’
We whisper’d, so as not to come off rude;
The coach embark’d along the concrete drag
Twyx high-rise environs, with joy we view’d
The city; as it swallow’d us entire
Wirhin us well’d the fountains of desire.
Paris, we love you, we do already,
More kudos than any earthly city,
Intoxicating wafts, ever-heady,
Of melting, ethnic electricity,
Creating a certain soft & steady
Rapture for living life’s felicity;
& just so classy, sense I, as we march
Under the Arc de Triumph’s varnish’d arch.
Along the Champs-Elysees, further down
Spreads, vibrant, the Tuileries, where strolls
Ms Baker, with a cheetah, into town,
& Catherine de Medici look’d at scrolls
In which De L’Orme would consecrate her crown;
The perfect palace beautiful, which sprawls
Beside the Seine, where ‘les bouqinistes’ trade
These tat-like antiques trinketly array’d.
Thou busted land of sweet Lutetian airs,
Of charming boulevards & barges trim,
Of cinemas & parks, where on green chairs,
Parisians thro’ poet’s pages skim,
Thy searing beauty caught us unawares,
Like infants hearing first a holy hymn,
When most of all we loved the way plann’d we
To spend a future holiday with thee.
Somewhere in the Fifth Arrondissement
Our hotel stands, with one of Longchamps’ maps
Guiding our steps, we found the logement –
Hotel le Clos de Notre Dame – whose taps
Shone like seraphs; ‘neath timber beams, sat on
The windowsill we peer’d between the gaps
Of blinds & curtains – faces, fabric, feet,
Of people live from Paris, ‘cross the street.
That night, an opera without the plot,
Without a doubt the best that I’d ever had,
With Sally looking oh so fucking hot!
We wander’d golden, voyeuristic, glad,
Where poet Antoine Houdart de la Motte
Once cast, in French, an early Iliad,
& Scotland’s Bonnie Prince did love to stroll
In exile, with his mistress, in the Fall.
This is a place where people give a shit
About how looks their home, a fine antique
Reeking of stories,’ ‘Sally let us sit
Awhile by Notre Dame,’ there, cheek-to-cheek,
We cuddl’d, kissing in a perfect fit,
Souls sensing ‘c’est fluide et c’est complique,’
When every single second comes too soon,
The joy & sadness of our honeymoon.
Back in our chamber, touching skin, I find
Sally’s panties’ paradise, with a slant
I slip my hands between, a gentle grind,
‘Til thrusting finger pays the gold bezant
& lust delays no longer, in a bind
Of bodies, breaking silence with a pant,
A moan, a squeak, or both the sunken gasp
Of climax, when we tight as magnets clasp.
Her form is as the morning’s blithesome sun,
Capp’d by a lustrous canopy of beams,
Her face a summer cloud the heat has won,
Round which the bright glow of her daylight gleams,
Her smile the cloud that drifts a little on
& sheds a breath of beauty by the streams,
Where whispers, still, this ceaseless love for she
Who reels my heart from solace, royally.
I am the Silver Rose this purple morn
That clambers over roofpeaks with set poise,
This Seine, this celebration, seems reborn
In me, a poet feeling first her joys,
But amplified to grandeur by the horn
Of mankind’s pearl’d advancement, what a noise!
Shaking tremendous force thro’ vaults below –
No! that clatter was in fact the metro.
I took a seat upon the Pont Neuf Bridge
& paus’d there like a panting cicerone,
Sat in a semi-circle, on a ridge
Above the river, I lay on the stone,
The emblem of this epic pilgrimage,
Whose petal-like philosophies have grown
Into this verbose effigy of me;
Mine immortality’s ain nominee!
For future bards & artists who have felt,
Deep passions & my poetry entwine,
Who’ve find themselves in Paris; as I’ve knelt
By Shelley’s tomb, with pencils, & with wine;
Into this seated moment let them melt
& place a pair of roses as a sign
To passing people, centuries apart –
A poet’s quill still thrills the human heart!
I’ve liv’d before, but now I’ll live real life,
As pleasant as a summer morning’s stroll,
She’s destiny, she’s perfect, she’s my wife,
The one thing that I can & can’t control,
Sometimes seems she as sharp as shark-tooth knife,
Sometimes as tender as a suckling foal,
With Sal, the need to roam the world withstood,
Her heart my home, her happiness my blood.
Mumble Words 