Tuesday, May 3, 2011

if i remembered a story about rain

Hard Rain Behind a Screen of Thistles

If I remembered a story about rain, would that be a way back?
It was not this mean spring cold seeping under the doors
but a summer cloudburst when we stopped the car,
obeying the ache that twisted through our nerves that year,
and touched naked on the rich grass, secret
behind a row of thistle and clotted blackberry.
Rainwater was the taste of July sky licked from your thighs,
sopping our hair, streaming off your breasts, off my shoulders.

Later, in the afternoon, after watching more rain fall,
I think I should have said it was like a baptism.
Seeing us there, discovering those two hidden in the long grass,
would it seem that our whole bodies were weeping
the fat warm rain, movements tensing fast to a shared cry
lost in thunder, our bellies together, as slick as newborns?


  1. An outstanding piece of art, both in word and image.

  2. Ahh..thistles :) Lovely pics and rich colours but I love the wretchedness of the first picture. And the poem, an explosion of senses!! "our whole bodies were weeping /
    the fat warm rain" I love how the bodies here merge with nature, the natural process of nature echoing itself in the couple and in the rain...beautifully done. Also that "slick as newborns" is such a wonderfully tactile image to end on.

  3. des images magnifiques, des couleurs incroyables,
    et tellement d'originalité ! j'aime vraiment !

  4. lovely memory in a beautiful poetic form.

  5. rich imagery in both photos and words ...

  6. wundervoll poetisch und tief berührend! Danke mein Freund.

    Küsse für dich,

  7. ρομπερτ, Marion, Marty, Tammie Lee, Susan, Isabella: Thank you!

  8. i don't know how i missed this poem, i must have been away... suddenly i feel jealous of that moment, i wish it were a part of me and my memories, that i could say: if i remembered... but if i say your lines loud, all over again, then it becomes a part of me, i hope it is not hybris to say this, and if it is, the hell with it, i don't care :-)

    (and yet i know that _moment_ doesn't exist other than through your words, in them, even for you, it doesn't have any other reality, but only this one, when mnemosyne is reinvented and becomes truth through poetry)