another money poetry dance photo
Us coming off the dance floor. You can see the poems printed on paper with blue ribbon attached to them so they can be pinned.
We're dancing to poetry (and money) at our wedding in October 2005. Send your contributions to michelleandrhett at gmail dot com
Us coming off the dance floor. You can see the poems printed on paper with blue ribbon attached to them so they can be pinned.
Here's one with me dancing with my cousin. You can see one of Nick's vispos on the front of my malong.
from the Anchored Angel edited by Eileen Tabios
I demand brilliance and
Consecration. Because of a star.
How beautiful is the light like
Grass! Love is not far
Nor your hand.
This being so
Love me well, love me well.
Because what Love is
I saw
I saw Love well:
Love tied a bell
To your heart. Love said, Kiss
Him and let your heart ring.
And this is the thing.
Jean sent this visual poem that reminded me of the moon rising over a California ridge. Made out of our very own invitation envelope at that!
RADIANCE (Footnote # 72)
Two poems contributed by Bec. Thanks, Bec! Keep sending those poems in, I've got 30 plus tables to fill, plus reading poetry at this late stage in the game is comforting and relieves me of my fret and stress I feel sometimes creeping into my body.
If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bard dust
on your pillow.
Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you would never walk through markets
with the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
through you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.
Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.
I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
-- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...
When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said
this is how you touch other women
the grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume
and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in the act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.
You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.
Release the Wheel