in the strangest corners of memory
Posted by William F. DeVault | Filed under Uncategorized
how new is this? I composed it live, right now, in this post create window. If there is a power outage in the next few seconds, it will be lost, forever. This is the nature of the truth.
I’m back.
in the strangest corners of memory
I will find you in the strangest corners of memory.
The way you took your drink and the pattern
of cool drops of sweat that formed on the glass
as we spoke of nothing as foreplay to
an inevitable union, moments in the future.
The texture of the skin on your back when…
when you were warm and full of life and me.
The way your hair fell in my face when I was
too busy with other things to notice, but remembered
later, and smiled a slow and gentle memory.
The scent of jasmine filtered through the oils
of your skin as you lay beside and beneath me
asking for nothing more than everything I had
and was and would ever be and I gave it all
in joy and hope and dreams and passion undismayed.
The texture of your kisses and the questions you asked
with hands and arms and lips and legs and sounds
that were not words but spoke infinite eloquences
that stole my heart and soul and memory of promises
I had made before I saw your eyes and lost the pain of life.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
G’night Jaz
Posted by William F. DeVault | Filed under Uncategorized
This evening, for Jaz, I dedicate my poem…
Pellinore, watching across the room
had I the will these arms to fill
I would take you to me now.
inhaling the essence of your skin
as your hair brushes my face.
no trace of doubt, no fear of falling
in a lazy death spiral of fractured heart.
where do we start.
when do we part.
and with what shall we fill the lazy hours
and the impractical nights?
soft words leading to
soft touches leading to
harder words leading to
harder touches
and the moment where
the terminator line loses focus.
duality merged in kisses urged
to their necessary conclusion.
but I have lost the will
in the killing fields of memory
where I even now
search through battered shells
for the omens of hope
left cut
into my skin
where I fell
last time.
but not for the last time.
for I have the will
to find the will
to wake the legion
and reason enough
to rise to challenge
the mocking moon
in the nights of silence.
William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.
G’night. You’ll hear me read this piece on “The Last Romantic Verb”, en route to you, as we speak.
Life is a cup of hot jasmin tea
Posted by William F. DeVault | Filed under Uncategorized
I was asked for input into what would be the final poem of the year (and the 97th post) in the Amomancer blog, and assented to the choice of my 2005 work “Perhaps there are yet panthers”. Despite my disappointment in the woman who inspired the works that are practically synonymous with my reputation, the Panther Cycles, I respect that poem. It speaks to who I am, having come at a time of great disillusionment, but expressing the hope that there should be someone out there for everyone, including me.
Yeah, I mean you Jaz. Having garnered your sister’s vote, do you think I will call it a day and retire my suit? Ha!
Yesterday I was asked who my favourite muse of all time was for my works. An unfair question. But one I felt like answering for the person who asked it, so I did. I think she was mildly shocked at who I named (Who was it? I don’t have to answer that for you…but I will give you a clue, she was quite tall). She was further surprised when I was asked how many muses I’ve had and I told her that there have been but three significant ones, despite E.J.’s insistence upon there having been like 8 major muses and a dozen minor ones. A single poem, a single stone, does not a temple of Aphrodite make. I have not been as promiscuous with my flesh or my heart as those who would benefit from thinking so would tell you.
In a perfect world, a perfect world, I would have married my first real love, Psyche, and that would have ended the path, she was beautiful, wise and brilliant. A great kisser (that’s important, you know), an earnest lover, intellectually passionate and of a sharp humour, she inspired some of my most elemental and enduring works. Without her I would never have become the poet, or the man, for good or for bad, that I am. I owe her infinite thanks. I measure all the women I have been inspired by against her, and most are found sadly lacking. No, it wasn’t her, but I wanted to state that, right here and now.
The New Year is upon us, and it is a time for sober reflection, introspection and mid-course correction.
The hell it is.
I want 110% power on all engines. Next time you see a comet in the night, passing Earth and waving hello as it fills the eye and sky with wonders, that’ll be me.
This is my moment of inertia.
Thanks to Jaz, Sarah, Peri, Elric, Dante, Brian, Jan, the guys in the band, Alan, Stephanie, Maggie, Jennifer, Robert, Tag, Chanda, Kristin, E.J., Nancy, Karla and everyone I am forgetting but will remember later.
One hell of a year, the bar has been set a bit higher for next year. And I’m already taking my running start.
truth…or…daring to be true
Posted by William F. DeVault | Filed under Uncategorized
Had a nice evening last night. No, not evening, night. Er, no…make that morning.
Long and silly story, which I won’t bore you with, but I managed to, in my spare moments, write some scandalously good poetry. So, a little lost sleep is well earned.
One of my companions kept asking me if I was sleepy. I told them I’d rather spend time with them than sleep. I should have said, with that raised eyebrow that indicate “target acquired” that I’d rather sleep with them than spend time, but that might’ve been too corny.
Besides, she knew what was in my heart. In some ways it is nice to be an open book, to have not the little, petty, cowardly secrets that everyone else seems intent on having and keeping and sweeping under the rug. Yes, it is a little scary, but I like the line uttered by George Clooney’s Major Archie Gates in David O. Russell’s classic anti-war film “Three Kings”: “The way it works is, you do the thing you’re scared shitless of, and you get the courage AFTER you do it, not before you do it.”
Confessing affection is scary, breathtakingly so (ask the Mad Gypsy).
What if the other person out of hand rejects you? It happens, it’s happened to me.
What if the other person gets in for reasons other than the happily ever after? It happens, it’s happened to me.
What if you take that leap of faith and not only release your desperate handhold on the rocks of the high cliffs above Kyrienar but press outward with all your might, so there is no hope of brushing a tree or outcropping of rock as you descend for a last ditch stab at survival, to prove how committed you are to this moment, to this paramour in (you hope) waiting? It happens, it has happened to me.
I could live the rest of my life alone, or living on “mosels and mould” and be a traitor to everything I believe in and preach, just as any Christian minister who gets up tomorrow in front of their congregation and praises the execution of Saddam Hussein is a traitor to their faith. The man was guilty, we know. But pragamatism, judgement and Christian values do not belong on the same altar. Read the Bible guys, especially those books after the Maccabees. But, I digress.
Or I choose to live within my principles and beliefs and religion of love and hope and passions immortal. I have spent almost three years in exile. The return of the poet-king was inevitable, but only on my terms. “I will take no pretender, again, to my bed”.
Besides, my readers love this part, most rooting for the happy ending, some rooting for roadkill, like the people who go to NASCAR events not for the competition, but for the accidents.
I do a great flaming chassis impression…SCREEEEEEEEEECH!
VP's last blog post..More on Cokie Roberts,...