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    AC Benus
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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 

1940, 1970 and Today – plus other poems - 2. Messenger of the Morn

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Poem No. 3 [2]

Also for Kei

 

All the faces on my floor

who make a bed of there and watch

the antics of a queer

move above them to a rhythm

that only he handles dear

brings him ever down.

 

Beneath the want of you

his desire for encore

when with you one part is through

the others under, list lines of more.

 

 

 

Poem No. 4

 

These are the days of which

the ancients tell with

boney fingers from their graves

 

 

 

Poem No. 5

 

朝の使者

後ろにあがる

とその耳にささやく

このの夢を

この起きる

 

Messenger of the morn,

Ascend behind my love

And whisper in that ear

This love’s dream;

Rouses this love of mine.

 

 

 

 

 

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[2] “Also for Kei” The floor references in this poem (and the previous two) are fairly literal, as my apartment in the Kichijohji section of Tokyo was so small, I used a pair of futon for bedding. Traditional futon are foldable mattresses stashed in dedicated cupboards during the day. Part of the ritual of going to bed involves arranging the futons and pillows, the covers and comforters, for the night.

_

Copyright © 2023 AC Benus; All Rights Reserved.
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Poetry posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you. 
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I've just encountered an Ian Young poem that speaks to what I was writing about in Poem No. 3. Here's an extract from Young's The Alteration:

 

Their faces

as they lie below you, or

above,

gaze

into your face,

flushed with need,

 

desire

filling a perfection

from what was,

the partial beauty

suddenly complete. [...]

 

What is remembered then?

A kind of innocence.

 

Human spirits,

sometimes,

 

human forms,

immediate,

absolute.

 

Not fallen.

 

_

 

 

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