Poetry Published in Russia| filed under: Poem, Poetry, Published
Years and years ago I was asked if I was willing to have some of my poems published on a website in Russia. I was willing. They're now closed so I replicated them here.
Memory of the Tousled-Haired Girl
In March only the smokers stood outside on the street where the party was allowed to spill.
With cigarette or without, smoke rose from the lips. I don't remember her smoking, but I remember the touseled-haired girl who read poetry from a cloth bound book.
She was the lover of an effeminate man who loved beautiful books more than beautiful women.
And possibly she loved words more than her lover for she used the tip of her tongue to lick them into the air, to press them into microphone.
It was the hair I noticed first. Soft waves in ringlets around the soft face with red lips and fine features.
But then everything came into place and I blushed away from this girl with the bluejeans cinched at the waist, the heavy doctor martins and the sweater tops, flattering to the grace of the arch.
©1998 Chris Abraham
The sky took the morning. Birds tore small holes in the quiet. The air remained cool, but not for long. It still kept us under the covers. Her breathing remained slow and rhythmic.
I, awake for nearly an hour, didn't know how to get out of bed without waking her. We had been awake together only three hours ago, here. We were new lovers. I did not dare to move as I didn't know her sleep as well as I knew others'. I knew I would doze again, but I hadn't the patience to wait.
The red block LED of the digital clock burned into my eyes. My stare slowed time. The morning failed to wax and I laid there for hours waiting for her to stir, not wanting myself to be the cause.
©1997 Chris Abraham
The first rain brought all the leaves to the slick city streets. Halloween yellows and oranges, reds and the pavement's dark mirror. It is an Autumn smell I feel now in this city. The incongruous smells of this season in Washington, DC. Fireplaces alight, the smoke white piped into the thick creamy overcast.Woody smoke.Wet streets. Slap of tires along wet pavement. Drops of water tapping onto the tin of the A/C unit. The rainy Autumn captures every sound. Siting in a coffee shop, listening to recording studio stock smooth jazz, the grinding of th Burr grinder. The rich funk of the Jamaican Blue Mountain. Autumn is richness of smells. The cool kills the garbage in a city and replaces it with a nicer pot pourri. Feces, rotting garbage, urine -- these things are a City in Summer. Where things strive to self destruct and in their absence there is stink, there is stench. There are outdoor rats and yet the cold nip sends all indoors. The reactions are not allowed or slowed and the stink never comes. Or at least not in a quick oppressive breath. In the winter a man smells more fragrant. Can spend more time away from the shower. The pits cloud less with the body's odor. The layers of clothing protect and insulate. Insulation. The insulation of the Autumn. The snuggling of the fabric, the cloth, the skin, the fur again the inefficiency of the body's boiler. The ineffective heating or we have gotten soft from the movement of our body's towards merchant's store, towards the catwalk and the haute couture.
©1997 Chris Abraham