and let’s decide it is today –
then it must be much like
the raven-haired improbably fleet
lean young dancer whom I saw this
morning on the subway – keen black
irises and alabaster skin and ebon
eyebrows like two painted wings –
Egyptian iconography made blood-
warm flesh: the world would dip as
freshly, deeply, gracefully as the plié
with which he entertained his rush-hour
audience astride a silver pole
obligingly provided by the MTA:
it would play the role he played
as he engaged my eyes as we got off
our ride at Twenty-Third Street –
and I told him how delightfully I thought
he’d danced for us – and he asked
in accents of some middle-eastern
country I could not decipher
what I did – and I forbade myself
to answer that my occupation was
to linger full to brimming everywhere
to find such finds as him – so I just
smiled as he stood waiting for a cue –
which I denied him: ah, New York! –
I knew of course I had to minister instead
Here's the thing. Andy understands the spirit and the letter of everything better than you do.
Prove me wrong! Come at me in a huff –
tell me that he doesn’t understand enough.
Tell me why you think so. I won’t think so.
Reduce him at your peril. He can be querulously
pissed when he sees prejudice cram anyone or anything into a booth: bias hisses, chokes. He grasps the furthest truths. He knows the cosmos plays the lightest jokes, occasions the vast blessedness of excess. “Success is counted sweetest/ By those who ne’er succeed” says Emily. Indeed, but Andy knows what a success could never be: mean-spirited small- mindedness. Watch him dilate when he sees a dog:
each will run up to the other – long-lost brothers
in a breaking fog: love in a nanosecond.
His eyes are always on the prize and always win it.
Sometimes the prize is you! You’ve never felt
so seen before. You only ever want some more.
But he is Mercury and Ariel and Wonder Woman, far too sensitively fleet to stay for longer
than a song. He sees too much to bear for long.
You love him but you know you’re wrong
if you imagine what you feel is anywhere as large
as what he was, will be and is. They say a man
is what he does: but Andy’s buzz and fizz befuddle
you out of the least assumption of that sort.
How to talk about the light he courts, inhabits,
shows, bestows? I tell him: there! It glows!
He glistens while he listens. But why would
somebody with light like his have need to think
of it or even care? I, however, blink at it and dare
I write roughly one poem a day. This blog is a continuation of a series of poem depot websites I'd also had through google, but which seem now to have filled up with my stuff to the point where I can't edit or add another page.
So here I am. Since April 1, 2009 I've been adding drawings, one a day. To see them fuller size left-click on the drawing - and voila.
To get an idea of who I am, google on "Guy Kettelhack."
To see poems I've written previous to the ones in this poem depot, google on Guy Kettelhack + Act 2 (or just Guy Kettelhack + poetry): for kind unsolicited observations about my work by photographer Rick Shupper: google Guy Kettelhack + Holtermann Design LLC. (I'd provide links but they don't seem to stick here.)
thanks for stopping by.