The poetry I wrote for class was all compiled into a single chapbook at the end of the semester, which I turned in to my professor. We only finished with six completed and well-edited poems, so the book was small. It may be helpful, or at least intriguing, to note that I titled my chapbook Not For Any Lack of Postage. As each of my poems is addressed to some other, it seemed fitting to treat them as letters – though, perhaps, letters unsent. The title of the chapbook reflects this concept.
The following is, of course, dedicated to my very own Didi.
To the Blazing One, When I Meet Her Again Under Stars and Sulphur
But, said Lewis, myths are lies, even though lies breathed through silver.
No, said Tolkien, they are not.
– Humphrey Carpenter, J. R. R. Tolkien: A Biography
Speak of trees and silver lies,
splintered light of words caught
in the prism
of you. Tame me
with a name I did not own
before, win the fear of me to you.
My wild, mistrusting soul may yet cry out—
your trajectory near to mine, and you
and I, we will go. We’ll meet
our midnights, travel salt-stained paths
together. See the streetlamps,
pillars of this life redeemed, grown
new out of oldest song, asleep in pine and cedar.
Or, simply, our failed attempts to match
the stars. Moon falls
and dew rises, clinging
to the heavens, to the soles of my feet. Shadows
quiver, feather-fingered night cast by your
bright eyes. Speak
of Myth, of Mystery, of Magic!
Your words curl in spirals—like midges
that speckle my legs, arms, face, biting me
back to earth. And now,
name! Name the night unending,
the stars and they will shine, the moon and it will
fall no more. Name the hum of late traffic, the man
on his bike alone,
the shoes I cast off by the bench. Oh,
name these things, and then—
name me, to you,