Sample Poems by Virginia Slachman
My Husband, A Dream
We made a trip, once, to the ocean.
What a wealth of water after so much
drought. Our home, so dry, seemed a dream
to me. The fish that glided by our bodies
as we swam, like ocean flowers full
of colors flowers only dream, is still
a small oasis. Otherwise the stillness
inside me is like the wild ocean
dried, where fish bones dance the sand, full
of what love comes to--only so much
sorrow. But the sea did hold our bodies
then, for a time, as though we were a dream
it had. And in that time of the sea's dream
we held each other in a certain stillness:
we made love slowly, like the sea, our bodies
and the scent of our bodies like the ocean
cleansing itself, over and over; how much
clarity comes when the waves break, full
of white excitement, then the calm, full
rest of the sea. I can no longer dream
that, or lie beside you, feel how much
you strengthened me then, feel your still
eyes on me. I think we were the ocean's
fools, you and I, our limpid bodies
floating at its very edge, its body
lulling us to rest upon its full
depth. What sort of death is in the ocean's
huge blue eye which, closed and dreaming,
turned us into other beings? I still
want that oasis, how we were much
too close to the sea's greed, much
too willing to believe our bodies.
I want, even now, those still
evenings, how close we were to the full
pardon of our real lives. A dream.
I don't know whose it was, mine or the ocean's.
When you died, it was as if the ocean's
body emptied, leaving me to dream
there was a life beside this sudden stillness.
Plate 15
Mark Rothko
Form defeats.
Rather, the air is filled
with color, expanding
in the godlike space
of the studio, the endlessness
from which he will draw
them forth. It is always
only his choice, this mix
of immeasurable hue.
The only substance is death;
nothing else is to be taken seriously.