On Yearning | The Quarantine Poems
The Quarantine Poems is a series of poetry written durning the covid-19 pandemic lockdown, available in text and in audio.
The first instalment, On Yearning, is authored by Sarah Lawrence.
on yearning
I regard you softly
Steeped with strawberry wine I regard you softly,
and recall with tender eyes the hours when
you were a pariah in my esteem; now,
in the afterglow of a carcassed season,
I lay my roots bare.
Show me the way to curl my tongue around your favourite syllable
and I'll show you the blush of a ripe peach
the ripened yearning of a softened stone fruit
yielding to the suggestion of touch, of taste,
a delicious word or morsel of wine-sweet promise.
This corporeal orchard sighs the gentle
heavy notes of amour in a two-step; I melt
into the sun and salt crescendo anew,
a monolith to the earthen dusk.
The Wake
Come, love, and hang your hat.
Draw honey wine from my cup and make
table here with the nymphs and i
The last time you moved through these rooms
i set your place myself, yet untouched it lays there still –
a graveyard to laughter, to colour
Everything in this house shouts your presence;
even the dust knows how to cleave to your likeness
in your new absence
This party is fraught with melancholy,
at once a union and a farewell,
yet in the anguished parting of each ending
blooms the amber glow of a new hope risen.
Our guests, ashen-faced spectres, look on vacantly;
i knew we were going somewhere,
but i didn’t want it to be here.
My love, depart.
When all is done we'll give alms to the tawny winds,
and thank them their stay, and part in good faith
mes amis
I always remember you over dinner and good wine.
We choke with laughter at something meaninglessly droll;
you embody all that is good, and eternal.
We three have sought adventure, too,
and touched lightly our imprints there:
Spectres of our joy ring out across
the cobbles of Edinburgh; are caught, wine-tinged,
on a thick, warm breeze in Marylebone on a cooking-pot July night.
Part of us lingers in the scorching concrete,
poolside in the suburbs of DC,
and along the river of Georgetown at dusk,
and another yet in the salty tang of
lilting Barbican evenings, and gin.
Our spirits rollick together on
a drunk, oversized beanbag,
and too high for our own good on a living room floor,
and in fresh-pressed ink in a light-filled art studio.
Carried on waves, and air,
and in shared bottles of wine,
and echoed in the stark white streets of Paris,
our souls seek each other
again, and again, and again:
And we, two princesses and a little bird, bound eternal,
pass stridently into the yawning chasm of tomorrow.
xxvi
Let me bloom for you
Billow to me softly over the ocean
and lay your breath down on my goose bumped skin,
you perpetual observer, you gentle mover.
Press your gentle touch on the nape of my neck,
if you please. Fresh sheets call us.
The pink gardenias are fragrant in their jar,
and I know you will smile at them
with that warmth you radiate at all things beautiful and good.
Pour coffee with me, and wine too.
Consider the multitudes and
seasons we embody from dawn through dusk:
the crisp winter newness of morning,
the dappled sun and autumn rustle of evening light.
Our shadows knit together along the
seams of my tender heart. Kiss me, will you?
Every little epiphany that draws me closer
is delicious.
Warm skinned dream weaver,
Good night
Boshemia Magazine welcomes submissions. To find out more or send us your pitch, go to our submissions page.