Progressive Wednesday

Like that.

For my money, Tim Seibles is one of the greatest living American poets. I’ve just recently cracked into his latest book, Buffalo Head Solos, and I wish I’d started it sooner. It’s one of those books that you realize you didn’t realize you were waiting for. Also, it must be said that his book Hurdy-Gurdy is absolutely masterful. If you’re looking for accessible, heart-aching and heart-lifting art, well, that book doesn’t make a misstep. (Just as an FYI, I’ll be reviewing Buffalo Head Solos in the not-so-distant future.)

I came across a poem of his the other day that just needed to be shared, that I think folks will be able to relate to quite easily, that jacked up the endorphins going to my head, or heart, or head-heart, whatever it is that makes us love anything in this world. And frankly, this poem is so kick-me-in-the-keister good, I wanted an excuse to type it. I hope you dig. Reading it is three minutes well spent.

- – - – -

 

FIRST KISS

 

 

Her mouth

fell into my mouth

like a summer snow, like a

5th season, like a fresh Eden,

 

like Eden when Eve made God

whimper with the liquid

tilt of her hips –

 

her kiss   hurt like that –

I mean, it was as if she'd mixed

the sweat of an angel

with the taste of a tangerine,

I swear. My mouth

 

had been a helmet forever

greased with secrets, my mouth

a dead-end street a little bit

lit by teeth — my heart, a clam

slammed shut at the bottom of a dark,

 

but her mouth pulled up

like a baby-blue Cadillac

packed with canaries driven

by a toucan — I swear

 

those lips said bright

wings when we kissed, wild

and precise — as if she were

teaching a seahorse to speak –

her mouth    so careful, chumming

the first vowel from my throat

 

until my brain was a piano

banged loud, hammered like that –

it was like, I swear   her tongue

was Saturn's 7th moon –

hot like that, hot

and cold and circling,

 

circling, turning me

into a glad planet –

sun on one side, night pouring

her slow hand over the other: one first

 

flying like the kite of another.

Her kiss, I swear — if the Great

Mother   rushed open the moon

like a gift and you were there

to feel your shadow finally

unhooked from your wrist.

 

That'd be it, but even sweeter –

like a riot of peg legged priests

on pogo-sticks, up and up,

this way and this, not

falling but on and on

like that, badly behaved

but holy — I swear! That

 

kiss, both lips utterly committed

to the world    like a Peace Corps,

like a free story, forever and always

a new city — no locks, no walls, just

doors — like that, I swear,

like that.