Vorfreude

Divine darkness comes

as you leave to find sleep,

black wings cover me.

What did moths bump into

before there were light bulbs?

How did I exist before your eyes?

Flutter morning awake;

frighten me just a little

with your estuary,

the sound of oars

drawing me from the shore,

church bells in the distance.

Take me out far enough

to feel the wind in my hair.

Give me an excuse to hide,

tuck some hallelujah,

let it burn a hole in my pocket.

I dare not sin against hope.

tk/November 2013

Vorfreude (n.)  The joyful, intense anticipation that comes from imagining future pleasures


I could listen to R.A.D. Stainforth say "church bells" all day...

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Storyteller

le Jardin, 1962, by Max Ernst 

Hold me as close to your fantasies as I will ever come.

Wave a magic wand

over forgotten fastenings;

wake me from the hollow tree.

How big is a halo, a button, a zipper pull?

Your eyes flash parable blue,

pan with anticipation,

tighten to close-ups of hands and feet.

Nothing is lost on the cutting room floor;

whisper a sweet amen at the end.

Remember this holy travelogue,

so it can be told over again,

without pillars of cloud.

Expose my gothic wings.

God and all the saints are gone; only kitsch remains.

tk/October 2013


Another excellent read from the incomparable R.A.D. Stainforth: 

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Ghost

You sidle up,
half see-through —

a sideways Father Christmas
who knows how good I’ve been,

the transparent constant,
who ruthlessly alphabetizes
the contents of my underdrawers.

You sequester a present for me,
wrapped safe in a tea cozy.

I run my finger over it, 
look for skull and crossbones,
then pop the cork and sip —
my lips stain with immediacy.

“It’s the gift of anticipation,” you whisper.

tk/March 2013

Thanks to the talented R.A.D. Stainforth for reading this poem. 

Not to be Reproduced, 1937 by René Magritte

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