The Poetry and the Poet

Poetry and the Poet

Ana Paula Arendt

Poetry is not for the poet

like water around the fish—

unnoticed and transparent,

busy making more seafood.

Poetry and the poet

are more like lovers

who meet, from time to time, at a party—

joyous, elegant, and lavish

in their distance.

All the details at the hem of the dress,

bare shoulders,

sparkling jewels

drawing out the gleam in the eyes…

His glance of interest—

and then

Poetry, as a lady,

becomes a sudden rush of blood

in the beating heart.

Her face turning toward her lover

at the slightest movement.

All the pleats of his suit,

carefully tailored,

holding the active body

of a well-poised man;

his gaze

at that woman,

returning,

until it does not leave.

The poet walks through

a suspended garden,

wondering if she will run

into his arms

and fall upon his body

forever.

He wonders

how he will be undone,

how he will be opened,

unpacked

in her embrace.

Two lovers at a party—ceaseless art,

and still the many first glances

never reveal the complete desire.

She stands in the center of the garden,

unheeded,

offering her beauty to every eye.

The poet fixes his sight upon her

as if nobody had seen her as she is,

as if only he understood her words.

Brimming in the chest,

all the words swelling,

the silent vowel promising the love he already has—

the sword plunged in the heart.

They meet each other as one looks

at a familiar face known before birth

that still needs to be known more—

and something opens

that has no end.

Servants by will, bending,

delightedly sure of being loved.

Now a single flame

learning how to burn.

Sometimes she turns away,

and he learns longing.

Sometimes she stands before him,

and he forgets himself.

Then words gather slowly,

like fruits

ripening on unseen branches.

The quiet countenance

beholding the strike—

an instant eternal

in the soul—

a brood of feelings

we gather by hand,

flowers picked up

one by one, through the years;

each of them

a terrible thing,

unavoidable,

making the world new

–as it always has been.

The lovers enter

the balcony of the white temple,

unfolding between sky and stone,

and their silence is devotion

moving toward their hour.

And now I swim in your eyes.

You were first like poetry for the poet—

consecrated to every eye—

but I alone

could delight in your beauty.

I fixed my sight upon you

to see what you are,

to sieve and blossom deep in my heart

every grain that you say,

every pain that you hide.

I am the poet

who cannot yet find

the words to say I’ll stay.

Long is the night,

and time is brief

to learn the ways

of your poetry’s fresh body

becoming my own.

Yes, night is long, and the dream is deep,

the path without measure…

Yet each chill in every step

is already a blessed arrival.

Then the right sacred words—the Sun rises,

and finally the bliss of your touch,

these your hands,

mine your eyes.

We, lovers, meant

to be possessed

by one another

until inhabiting

one another.

And now you became my poet—

take all the flowers

of all the gardens

where we have met:

they were always yours.