I was recently seeing (seeing? Hanging out? Dating? Who puts labels on things, right?) a guy. An adorkable poet. And because imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, I began to jump into poetry all over again. Not that it was necessarily very good
...I mean, it could be, but I'm thinking for the new year, I'd write a poem a week to capture the week's thought-blip.
('Cause after writing 7-8 plays in only four months' time, poetry wouldn't be a bad venture, right? And who knows where these poetic roads will lead...)
The first is actually inspired by snowfall...or at least, me waiting for the snow to finally arrive in Chicago. What's winter without a little magic?
This one's for the poet and our love for snow.
"In Winter's Garden" by Ryan Oliveira
Open the door. Enter the garden
where trees are stripped bare to bones
but stick to sequences of twigs
that cuttlefish to clasp the air.
Perennial fragrances give way to baser,
primal flavors: barbecued cedar, hints of teak,
oaky smokes that grope your nose
and unlock memories of chocolate reverie.
If you are lucky, She will dance tonight.
Iridescent invitations of greens and pinks
as She sambas under starlights. She even waltzes,
and casts her reds and claps like Spanish damas.
But perhaps you are outside her Circle,
so She whips the air to willowing pillows of
white, too delicate to locate the needles
numerous in surface, but syrup in your hands.
Catch them on your tongue. Spring water
is no longer a bottle, but a butterfly of ice
that floats and flutters from the skies
like iterations of leaves that once were.
Best of all: Silent. Night.
Not the song overplayed, but the soul overjoyed
in the snow-crunch that captures sounds
in moss-muffles and mouse-squeaks unseen.
She follows you like a deer in rear-lights.
Roughs you with the wind if you come unveiled.
Veers into you like a skidding truck.
Crashes into you like a broken heart.
But She is not playing nor’easter tonight.
Nor is She yuki-onna in Kabuki drobe.
She seems Ice Queen, but is Rainha Natalia,
Our Exquisite Mistress of Mountainous Souls.
But our Himalayan expedition must end.
Her garden must sleep for several months
to muster the lights and frozen fountains again.
Close the door on your way inside.
But remember to wonder.