Poetry for me is often a kaleidoscope of light and meaning, one which I can easily pick up and put down amongst my worldly responsibilities. One of the more interesting people I know, who has worked on the human genome project, run an eco-lodge in Ecuador to the benefit of native people, plays the violin and banjo, makes a deliciously tart Cosmopolitan, and is currently exploring poetry, sent me this one by Li Young Lee.
It is beautiful, sensual, erotic, precise, and evocative. This is perhaps why, even though many who have heard and read my fiction tell me to write poetry as well, I haven’t shown mine to anyone. I’m in awe of those like Lee who can accomplish this, all in just fourteen lines:
By Li Young Lee
It’s late. I’ve come
to find the flower which blossoms
like a saint dying upside down.
The rose won’t do, not the iris.
I’ve come to find the moody one, the shy one,
downcast, grave, and isolated.
Now, blackness gathers in the grass,
and I am on my hands and knees.
What is its name?
Little sister, my indigo
my secret, vaginal and sweet.
You unfurl yourself shamelessly
toward the ground. You Burn. You live
a while in two worlds at once.
(if anyone knows the copyright information please let me know so I can include it)