Poetry: Marc Di Saverio

SONNET XIV
for Diane Windsor

When I was still the husband of the wind —
when I was Leopardi-sure I’d never
know a woman’s body’s ways — when I
was nineteen – when I was Prufrock-positive
of mermaids never singing to me, either,
of a life without betrothal or progeny –
–             when I was one of the hideously-bodied —
–             When I was still the husband of the wind,
–             I would dream, like Pygmalion, of my donna perfetta,
–             One whose soul was as beauteous as her body,
–             One whose nature was sublime but unlikely,
–             and I would dream that she would come to life,
–             that she would meet me at the brow, and love me, and now,
–             beside you, awake while you sleep, I see: she is you.

 

 

FRAGMENT FOR A HEAVEN-FARER

for Diane Windsor

According to that Acolyte who some say saw the Second Coming —
–           no greater love can a man have than this —
–          than to lay down his life for his friend;
According to that Acolyte who some say saw the Gallops of Glory —
no greater love can a man have than mine –
I’m warming outside James Street store-fronts where once
–                    our sea-sky-lips would,
stunning passers-by, horizon their romance-less eyes with
–                                      each of our own perfect kisses;
I’m slumming throughout air-stung hoar-frosts where once
–                     our sea-sky lids would,
shunning passers-by, thunderclap their romance-less hearts with
–                                       each of our own perfect visions –
Yet, take thought: the adversary’s maximum extensions are harpoons
–                                  he swears are darts of amities knee-
–                    jerkingly flung automatically as beams toward their
–                                  midnight moons, or smiles of mothers
–    whose conditionless love so helplessly blooms in the faces
–            of red-eyed teens all synch-ly slouching at their court-hearing.
I surmise The Devil has not heard, and I hope, Diane, you’ll finally know:
–                     calm can only come by the one called
–                     that violet-eye-light-beaming Jesus Christ –
–         and, that, Lucifer, like a late autumn wasp with stinging wings
–                        frosting in the twilight, KNOWS his death is near,
–    so he quavers in fright, privately, yet, publicly,  like he does now,
jabs a maximum of souls, which he considers his birthright;
And, take thought: I often wonder if you,
yes, Job-long-suffering you, weeping-willow-boughs
-amid-the-winter-wind-unassuming you, ever
–           owned the value to wonder: Might I be one to write as
fast as the Almighty
speaks, might I be the Stenographer of the Lord, never even needing
any breaks (O Lucifer,  YOU believe
–                                   that you will beat her hand at any sort
–           of duel? Her hand is guided by the hand of God! O Lucifer,
–                          she is ready!) So, Di, when you face him, Eastwood-easy,
–                                                            DRAW!;
And, take thought: the force that drives my spirit drives your own,
yet the spirit of Satan dives
like Iscariot dove from the rope-ripped-bough throughout the Hour
–                                                           Of Shadows.  Remember,
Satan, regardless of his wishes, despite being SMALL g god of this
world, is merely the prop-foil-prelude
secondary of so many myriad dualities created by
The Trinity, his eventual Bermuda Triangle, until whose disappearance,
–                                     is the mere adversary, the saw-weight
–                     of the see-saw, the one alone the Lord esteems enough
–         to consider the clearest, but maybe not His most fearsome opponent,
–                                                who has darkness both behind and before
–     him! So how, Diane, is he even a Light-Bearer,
–                             since, wherefrom comes his light? He KNOWS
–                         he is finite – he worships the finite, so how can he be
–      bright — especially in the face of your light, woman-of-my-dreams-
–                         and-of-the-the-dreams-within-my-dreams?

 

 

SONNET XIII
For Diane Windsor

Even the time I spend apart from you
is yours. Even scarcely tenable
quavers of your smiles are seen to the
whole world inside my electric soul,
even the memory of your voice’s lower-
most echo, blasts away any noises, accompan-
ies me through the loneliest, hollow silences.
Even your Galatean shadow is bodied – and souled —
in my heart. Even the time I spend apart
from you is yours.  Even others with
your name, are more forgivable
to me. Even Angels of the Light
discuss us, I believe. Even
awake beside you sleeping, I cannot dream.

 

A SONNET ON EPHESIANS 5:25
for Diane Windsor

And how you modern readers wonder why I call her thee?
It is because you’ve never seen or known her apogee.

And at the crucifixion-slow-mo-mentioning
of me and you, the lovers of future Valentine’s
Days will wonder, Romeo and who? No greater
love can a man have than this: than to lay down his life for his friend;
No greater love can a man have than mine; for you I laid
down my life, and for you I’d lay it again – able by
the aegis of the Lord, without whom I would be gone…
–           If I did not, if I do not, if I
–           would not so strive to love you just as Jesus
–           loves His Bride, I’d flee from thee as the Devil
–           fled the moment after he thirdly sought
–           to tempt I AM; Calvary’s my only
–           guide to loving thee, so my heart beats
–           Di-ane, Di-ane, Di-ane, Di-ane, Di-ane.