Jody's Notes
Once upon a time I was reading French poetry, an anthology of stuff from the 16th century. In the original French. Yeah, I could do that once. Sort of, anyway. So: The eyes are the flowers of the face. I remember reading that--or something like that--for the first time. It was early in the book. What a cute idea, I thought. (Because I hadn't seen it before, I guess.) So direct, and yet fresh. Well, not so fresh, actually. Because by the time I'd finished the book, I was sick to death of poet after poet saying, in one way or another, or often in the same way: The eyes are the flowers of the face.
This early poem was republished in The Lust for Blueprints, both editions.
Darling,
You would not talk to me yesterday,
so now my crippled tongue is swollen
with the thoughts I wanted to express.
This letter too is crippled.
If you pull it out of its stamped glove,
it will reach out to you
like a fingerless palm.
How will you keep from laughing?
It is not warm, it has no grip,
no pulsing wrist, no blood,
but instead only the blue markings
of something sucked dry of sound.
You would not listen before.
Why should you hear anything now?
Eyes are cold creatures
safely gazing from their buckets.
If they have ears, it is as turtles do.
If they are touched,
it is only by their own moisture.
I can hope for this much at least:
Should my pen’s dark tears reach your eyes,
perhaps the soft orbs will echo
after their fashion, soak my image free
from your optic nerves,
stain the pages with it.
© 1990, 2001 Jody Azzouni