and then some help.? Ode to Peter Benoit...needs a different poem title and a revised introduction. If any one wishes to cut it up and patch it back together, add/subtract, go ahead...I am no poet, I appreciate reading the works of others.I only stumbled into this catagory, I put research and thought into my answers and inadvertantly thought I had stumbled upon a wrong to be righted...erroneously, not knowing people had more than one account and identity here. No good deed goes unpunished..
Pagan beauty, she enters
Choosing her phrases carefully
Light as Brahms, Bach, an Inca fugue
Balancing acts of reciprocation
To reach into this chaos moment
As a summer storm returns with heat
Convection turning into each other
Not confined by nostalgia or revenge
With peace hidden in her middle eye
Skirts swirling fully round about
Blood warm, pulpy ripe, soft bodied
To feed you this apple to its core
Surrounded by your serpents
This is fruit that you’d been waiting for
In far away eyes, something familiar
Songs from the France of my fathers
We play our own flutes Separately
And sing the bawdy songs of Piaf
on the Boulevards arm in arm together
drunken from the new wine
And so in this sacred communion
You become the gelatinous fruit
sweetly sucked as suckled secret
whispering assurances in low tones
so the others will not hear, you say
She doesn’t have to take part in this
She believes but prefers not to pray,
to the many gods.
Olympus is hidden in our blood
We reflect it, face to face, half naked,
Yet less understood
Pagan beauty, she enters
Choosing her phrases carefully
Light as Brahms, Bach, an Inca fugue
Balancing acts of reciprocation
To reach into this chaos moment
As a summer storm returns with heat
Convection turning into each other
Not confined by nostalgia or revenge
With peace hidden in her middle eye
Skirts swirling fully round about
Blood warm, pulpy ripe, soft bodied
To feed you this apple to its core
Surrounded by your serpents
This is fruit that you’d been waiting for
In far away eyes, something familiar
Songs from the France of my fathers
We play our own flutes Separately
And sing the bawdy songs of Piaf
on the Boulevards arm in arm together
drunken from the new wine
And so in this sacred communion
You become the gelatinous fruit
sweetly sucked as suckled secret
whispering assurances in low tones
so the others will not hear, you say
She doesn’t have to take part in this
She believes but prefers not to pray,
to the many gods.
Olympus is hidden in our blood
We reflect it, face to face, half naked,
Yet less understood