http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
I love sunflowers, for real and as immortalised in art.
Today’s poem was posted on the blog in April 2009 and is repeated today especially for two Danish readers, ‘Aksel and Carin’ who share a love for the paintings of Danish impressionist Preben Rasmussen; among his paintings, their favourite is one inspired by...yes, sunflowers.
Now, I confess I’d never heard of Rasmussen, and only know of (and love) Van Gogh’s incredible sunflowers but will be on the lookout for any exhibitions of his work from now on.
Oh, but I love it when readers comment that my love poems could have been written for anyone, gay, straight or transgender; my point entirely. [Incidentally, I always include and try to reach out to lesbians among my gay readers, only can’t keep qualifying what I say; no offence intended to those lesbian readers who prefer the term ‘lesbian’ to ‘gay’.]
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A love poem is a love poem, for anyone and everyone, in any language.
I love sunflowers, for real and as immortalised in art.
Today’s poem was posted on the blog in April 2009 and is repeated today especially for two Danish readers, ‘Aksel and Carin’ who share a love for the paintings of Danish impressionist Preben Rasmussen; among his paintings, their favourite is one inspired by...yes, sunflowers.
Now, I confess I’d never heard of Rasmussen, and only know of (and love) Van Gogh’s incredible sunflowers but will be on the lookout for any exhibitions of his work from now on.
Oh, but I love it when readers comment that my love poems could have been written for anyone, gay, straight or transgender; my point entirely. [Incidentally, I always include and try to reach out to lesbians among my gay readers, only can’t keep qualifying what I say; no offence intended to those lesbian readers who prefer the term ‘lesbian’ to ‘gay’.]
.jpg)
A love poem is a love poem, for anyone and everyone, in any language.
SUNFLOWERS
Mad
caress of fingers in the hair,
bold lips
lingering on mine;
bright
eyes pricking every nerve,
our
breaths like party wine;
beads of
sweat, rolling down
each
parted thigh like tears
on the
face of a lost child, found
and
returned home…
A rhythm
in us like the quickening
pulse of
a late-night disco,
cyber
suns flashing in the face,
making
V-signs;
fulfilment,
the joy of someone
playing
with a new toy...
(Even in
my ecstasy, I sense, dimly,
how
you’ll grow tired of me)
for now,
though, joined together
like
Siamese twins,
one of us
destined to live out
the
other’s days...
No
choice. Better to die now
in a sea
of passion
than
while away a lifetime
in a
toyshop window;
fill me
then with the glorious
chaos of
rebirth;
music,
like sunflowers, bursting
from the
earth...
Copyright
R. N. Taber 2004
[From: The
Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004]
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