City of Legends

I wouldn’t for the life of me try to explain the emotional roller coaster I climbed into after allowing the fates to strap ginormous ion boosters to.  But I am enjoying the Hell out of it (for that is my nature) and, one side effect of this is my writing.  Not always obvious to me when I write something that clicks with the rest of the universe…

But a few minutes ago I wrote and posted a new piece at DA, entitled "ten thousand roses", that had just come to me.  A lyrical piece of someone pleading with a fading lover to come back, trying to recapture the lightning (or in my case, more like the X-ray supernova) in a bottle of the relationship.  I heard it in my head as a lyric, sung soft to a single guitar (and will probably include it on an upcoming CD).

Within moments I was deluged with comments about it.  Resonances struck.  I had no idea it would get this response, but it feels good to have a thought, an emotion, validated.  It’s better than sex.  Okay, better than bad sex.  Okay, better than bad sex with an ugly person who doesn’t bathe.

Anyway, now that I have spoiled the mood, here it is…

ten thousand roses

if I brought ten thousand roses
would you think to change your mind
and come back to where your kisses
taught me how love is defined

if I waited for a lifetime
would you meet me at the end
would you stay with me forever
and be more than just a friend

if I brought ten thousand roses
and promised all my heart and more
would you step back into loving me
give me what I’m living for

if I promised and delivered
a miracle, and more, each day
would you remember memories
or would you hurry on your way

if I brought ten thousand roses
and I brought ten thousand more
could I count on all you promised
when you loved me once before

William F. DeVault.  all rights reserved.

Having lived through that anguish more than once, it felt good to give words to it and bleed some of the pain away.

It occurs to me that, for a poet, I have not been really forthcoming with poetry on this blog of late (check out Amomancer for the real fur), but I feel I owe you all one.

If I have been a bit…odd…of late, chalk it up to the intensity of my life at this time. I am totally, desperately in love, and there are complications enough to make a major mini-series out of it all. The bizarre part is, I am not fundamentally troubled by this, as I believe that sparks fly upwards and that, aside from God’s love, nothing in this life is truly free. I like having to work for it, it makes me feel a little less unworthy.

So let poetry reign for a bit…

lips as sweet as morning

taste lips as sweet as morning,
blessed and confessed in my heart
as more than adequate a proof of God
and evidence of light and life
found to confound my cynicism
if you will dance with me for a night
that stretches on past morning, into forever.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

for Candy. for ever.

Tired of reading love poems about the woman I adore, worship, admire and trust above all others in my experience and imagination? Then I suggest you leave now…

sparks and sandals

I want to strike a spark
my steel to your flint
without a hint of regret,
remorse or (of course) the stark
illusions I have drawn before
in smoke and mirrors
that made tricks of a light
that gave no heat
that bore no fruit
that held me not aloft

so I was to fail and fall.
all I ever wanted was someone
who fit me like Jesus sandals
made by hand and shaped to fit
by the waters in which they’d been dipped
a baptism of self-discovery
so you knew what you had to offer
to the love gods, in barter for a kiss
that meant something more and all.
I have walked long to find you.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

The lovely and talented Candy sent me a poem earlier this evening that I hope she will post to her blog, for it is wonderful (I keep telling people she makes me work hard to keep up, which is a huge part of the excitement for me).

In the time between now and her posting (I hope) I offer a faint echo of that work, inspired by her and her passions.

conquest

your skin whispers "conquest"
as you hold me to your will
memories fading into the nothing
where they belong, a song of silence.
your skin whispers "conquest"
and I remain with you, still
feeling your heart as it opens wide
and caresses me, possesses me.
your skin whispers "conquest"
and your lips breathe my name
onto my flesh, into the dreams
where, once obscure, you now endure.
your skin whispers "conquest"
as you take me where burns a flame
that immolates me in holy fire
with no complaint, and no restraint.
and your whisper is like thunder to my blood.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

There was a study done a few years ago that said the main difference between merely pretty (which seems to be the average of all standard facial features one is exposed to within their culture) and beautiful was not a higher order of perfection but a slight lack of symmetry.

Those people we define in our various cultures as most beautiful are not those who achieve flawless symmetry through genetics and exercise and regular injections of nerve paralyzing agents derived from rotting food, those we see as merely “pretty” (and occasionally “grotesque”). Beautiful starts from pretty and then, with a few small things moved out of symmetry to create a noticeable ripple barely perceived, in the awareness of the viewer, it steps out of the crowd. In other words, they stand out, they are “striking”.

We don’t like boring people. Boring people may blend in well, but they don’t “Wow” us like we want to be wowed. Think of Ellen Barkin in “Sea of Love” snapping her fingers to communicate the need for the “zap” of instant attraction. The thunderbolt. What we don’t notice on at least a preconscious level we cannot be seduced by or drawn to.

And it isn’t just on the physical side. I know when I first felt a tug towards my partner and friend, my lover, Candy, I started reading everything I could find that she had written (good thing she is a writer, and a good one). It wasn’t poems or articles about pristine fields of daisies that set the tuning forks of my soul humming, it was the pieces about pain, loss, rejection, fear, anger, betrayal, loneliness and determination, even her love of caffeine. The “little things” that really aren’t so little but expose the bare skin under the cosmetic of everyday conversation. Just like the right flaw in the heart of a diamond sets up the gem to bend the light in new and exciting ways, so was I caught by the refraction of the pale white light of everyday life.

Grey became red and blue and gold and green and colours I’d never seem and as of yet still do not have words for. It was…*snap*…the thunderbolt.

We like our heroes and our lovers to be human, to be real, to have the little picks and flaws that make them all the more precious to us. As beauty is everyday elevated by the right nuance of imperfection, a “perfect fit” in love comes from mutual and complementary imperfections, that is where the attraction and the excitement come from. On some levels we are very different people, and that is intriguing and exciting.

No charity.

No parity.

In love.

the flowers use their powers
of their fragrant nectars
to draw you in
for their purposes.

And yet petals

smell beautiful.

In love.

William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

I’d save the raw draft of this, but it is written in Sharpie pen on the back of my left hand. Final touches for the honor of Shye, who is curious as to the disposition of my heart and my soul.

Hey, looking for the perfect Valentine’s Day gift?

101 Great Love Poems at eBay

I am selling an autographed, uncirculated 1st edition of my 2002 collection of love poems. The hardback. Yeah, that one. So, go buy it. I could use the cash, and you could use the thoughtfulness points with your lover. Despite my own, personal ineptitude in my personal life, I am great at getting other people laid.

More V-Day presents to come this season…

Back later…have a planet to conquer, a destiny to fulfill and a love to immortalize.

All in all, a busy day. (Sorry I missed your message last night, Jaz, (pout))

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.