This is pillow talk

This is pillow talk:
bliss explodes in the darkness, filling it
with hot words. Yes, the words tumble out, yes;
unchecked, spewing beyond control,
intertwining themselves compulsively.
They leave empty what was filled with only
words, having stained the sheets of my notebook.
Not even iambic, not even rhymed,
they are words, poor company for the night.

No joining bodies; only spoken words,
sound and fury: do the syllables mean
when no one hears them? Seductions sound strange
without lover's ear. Were I god, I would
rip you whole from my forehead or my ribs:
in the beginning, and end, was the word.

This is an act

This is an act, as empty
as breathing
and of as little
consequence:
two bodies
together
in poetry--
not words, symbols,
hieroglyphics or ideograms,
but meaning--
together
in an act
as empty
as breathing.

This is madness

This is madness:
playing with words,
the infantile ego
knows no bounds;
creation
is creation;
nothing is new.

The passion fades
leaving
marks on a page,
ancient marks, symbols
of ancient thoughts:
in the beginning
was
the word.

This is a word without meaning

This is a word without meaning: szeretlek,
a temporary insanity,
i-love-you repeats,
echoing,
for days on end
without
proceeding to a language.

Hallucinate the absolute new:
there is no greater love than
language. The vocabulary
of compression
has seven words for snow, but
cannot distinguish
degrees of love:
szeretlek, word without nuance,
suppresses explanations,
adjustments,
degrees,
scruples;
against language,
there is no answer.

This is desire

This is desire: unspeakable
and full of glory,
hunger
not to be satisfied,
consuming itself
growing full
of glory,
growing stronger,
growing.

The infantile ego
of creation,
unable to tell
even half;
the ego,
full of glory,
such that half
has never yet been told;
the ego
grows
empty
with desire.

This is how we begin to forget

This is how we begin to forget: day breaks
on the dream; light
fixes words to the page
changing
images
into imperfect
symbol.
Days turn into the past;
symbols represent,
but are not
what they mean.

Marks on a surface,
dreams affixed to the page
fade
with the light;
image turns to symbol,
then to dust
leaving
symbol.

This is how we begin to remember

This is how we begin to remember:
the imperfect blooms
as daylight after the dream
and coming to mind,
by an effort, are only
insignificant features
in no way dramatic;
images, imperfect:
only words,
sounding
resounding
fading, though
the roots of rhythm remain.

Do not write,
do not write the imperfect,
the enormous novel,
from insignificant features
after the dream.

This is the beginning of poetry

This is the beginning of poetry: looking at words,
looking at words, looking at words:
images, sounds, all determined
by looking at words
symbols, marks, mute marks sounding
resounding
echoing against the walls of thought.

Poetry is images; poetry is sounds;
poetry is the echo
fading
failing to depict, define,
but conveying, connoting
four notes from a flute
of champaign, half-empty
and abandoned.
Poetry is not a strong affection for
or attachment or devotion to--
the futile vestige of a fatigue,
rather: a tautology,
the fatigue
of language itself.
Poetry is nothing to say: looking at words,
looking at worlds, looking at words...

This is the beginning of writing

This is the beginning of writing:
dense,
violent,
indifferent
to the infantile ego
of creation:
marks on a surface.

In the beginning was the word:
this is the beginning of writing,
natural,
free
of distortion or illusion,
yet the poet
finds it hard to speak:
no beginning without words--
indifferent marks on a surface,
language subjugates nature
to illusion.
This
is the beginning of writing.

When you need me most

When you need me most
do not despair. All you need is here.
I am here with you--can't
you hear me, leaning to whisper in your ear?

I am here, now, in the words
you knew I would say. Let
my words wrap you, hold you safe
in my love, as strong, as lasting
as language.