Sunday, April 1, 2007

Tim Brenan


it is impossible to own
a moment or a person
although sometimes
it seems we settle into either
one or the other like
a soft relaxing splash of
soapy warm spa water
lying naked, enjoying
the elasticity of the moment
stretching into others
around us, & me catching
the ends of your hair,
the tips of your fingers
while doing so i often
begin imagining
i can re-grow
each and every limb
i have ever lost


Once, a long time ago,
when i thought the world
was mine, i dreamed of you
through fishbowl silver
marbles, red tetra in your eyes-
you broke sticks & carried
them into the night forest,
naked, promised me a lean-to,
& invited me to follow with
the crook of your finger
i blinked just once &
you were almost moist
eventually, only our legs
could be seen as they
rippled back & forth
like thin flags
in a soft wind
even heavy
stones gossiped -

raspberries (1971)

the woods near my home,
near sand hill, near otter creek,
the place where i learned to cup my hand
over dana's breast, place a finger upon
her nipple in such a way she would sigh,
were filled with wild raspberries
i would pick them in hot august
one red moment at a time, finger
print red, tongue red, mouth redness
dana would join me,
sometimes dipping
in her low brown t-shirt much
like a young sleek otter
chasing another through thickets,
through thick chicory filled with red finches,
each holding its breath in unison
anticipating another red moment

Dreaming of Emily Dickinson

i sometimes dream of Emily Dickinson,
her seemingly stoic allegories
speaking of lost love:
flies buzzing, yellow halos,
unblossomed thighs, apple orchards,
new shoes in Eden
secretly, she was a woman
i once loved even though
she didn't know,
wouldn't acknowledge,
wouldn't have known what
to do even if she had known
she was my home town,
all my favorite places to visit,
walking in her streets,
elm lined
lovers' lanes
i would have died for her Beauty,
instead i live for her Truth
today i saw a woman
who reminded me of her
i wanted to tell her
that it was she who touched
my face and found me there


Anonymous said...

Tim Brenan.
I very much enjoyed your poetry, I think this is the first time I have read it but not the last surely. You are there, in the moment, no pretention no ribbon ties no academic bling, genuine writing. Who can capture that feeling, of being able to regrow limbs? Not many. You are one write on.

~Jennifer VanBuren

Anonymous said...

Good to read you Arlene!

this line sticks with me :
I am required to misunderstand
what pain wants from me.

~Jennifer VanBuren