Guanahani, 11
like the beginnings – o odales o adagios – of islands
from under the clouds where I write the first poem
its brown warmth now that we recognize them
even from this thunder’s distance
still w/out sound. so much hope
now around the heart of lightning that I begin to weep
w/such happiness of familiar landscap
such genius of colour. shape of bay. headland
the dark moors of the mountain
ranges. a door opening in the sky
right down into these new blues & sleeping yellows
greens – like a mother’s
embrace like a lover’s
enclosure. like schools
of fish migrating towards homeland. into the bright
light of xpectation. birth
of these long roads along the edge of Eleuthera,
now sinking into its memory behind us
Not to Mention Love: A Heart for Patricia
(An Excerpt)
by David Clewell (1955-2020)
So when you turn out the light
and this page goes as dark as the room you’re lying down in
and for one night at least there are no more distractions,
it’s my heart you’ll be listening to. And it’s yours.
We fit together so well sometimes it’s not easy
telling whose lips, whose arms, whose heat in the groin,
whose very good idea. I’m not taking any chances
bigger than the one you’ve given me–your insistent heart
mixed up with mine: uh-huh, uh-huh, huh-huh,
and my heart has never been the heart it is right now.
It’s what we’ve both been waiting for: I’m asking you
to make of it what you surely will, to take it from here,
in your love beyond these imperfect words, please
take it wherever you’re going tonight from here
Fourteen Lines 