[Newspoetry] Emma Seaberry - a re- take?

[DL Emerick]

Dear Mark, and comrades in arms,
the arms of your lovers,
where you alone fit best,
and belong all the time...

Is she real or a construct?  I ask after Emma, as if i wanted to take her hand, to kiss it -- take only her hand, of course, for a moment from your hand, Mark.

My own poetic girlfriends are all constructs -- composite personalities...  They are always living in me, like a harem in a desert lord's tent, in my textualist intents.
I start talking about one of them, and toss in details descriptive of others of them...  Who could tell whether any alleged inconsistencies are merely quirks of mine (as a writer) or faithful reproductions of the person allegedly portrayed -- for anyone might be schizoid!  and everyone probably is...  it's just the pathological aspects of all that madness, of all that love, that is each of us that is what none of us would dare confess...

but I do take my vows most solemnly as preacher of poetic truth, poetic penance, to take poetic measurements that exaggerate all things in their limiting dimensions, to let them be seen, for the poem is the most difficult technology ever devised, difficult to apply so as to allow true spirit to be seen -- for a poem is a tele-ghostic device... a transpiritualist tool -- and I would be but a journeyman, in the arts and crafts of its uses, making what could be useful, if not what is most excellent.

*****

For Emma Seaberry

So, I loved Emma with her azure eyes,
when you looked her in those eyes,
she'd make the skies fade away,
for her eyes were wider than the skies,
and deeper than the blues of heaven
that hide behind the skies,
for there was a heaven behind her eyes,
a promised land my body often travelled,
traversed her body over, upon, and through,
planting the flagstaff down at base camp,
pitching the bedcovers up over us,
as shelters from eyes, as puppy love tents,
and her laughter was sometimes throaty,
as the rumble of distant bombs exploding,
and other times it would burst over me,
like the staccato of small-arms fire
that I had grown to fear,
out in ancient babylon...

I learned to fear, out there,
my woman's every sudden move,
for what creeps around buildings,
peers at you from darks windows,
darker shadows around corners,
may turn into shining barrels
of whining mortars, rifles, pistols,
and speeding bullets thirsty for you,
thirstier than Emma for your kisses,
and though hers is a mighty thirst,
the thirst of that desert land
is never quenched in sighs,
no matter how many tears,
nor whose blood we shed...

Emma, my love, I'd have come home,
some other way, my love, to you,
perhaps in a foolish body bag
that tried to hold me together,
perhaps, as some crippled person,
missing just a hand, a leg, an arm,
a bit of me but not quite all of me,
or even possibly, I'd be diseased,
bitten by strange bugs and beasts.

Emma, my love, I'm sorry
they lock me away from you,
because of my killing madness,
and they can never let me go,
never let me come to you again,
alone, looking into your azure eyes,
whose ocean would have swallowed me,
and not the madness of this green sea,
that leaves me shivering and silent,
no longer human but not quite alien.

for Emma Seaberry's soldier boy,
who himself lives in a grave
that has not yet been closed,
in which he is buried alive,
unable to step out as himself,
as the happy guy he once was
before Bush sent him to die
in one of the many ways that mortals do,
a fatality certain, even if uncounted....

Sincerely,
DL Emerick

PS:  This Emma poem of yours is a new style for you... it is, in my opinion, a welcome new diversity, well begun in its first appearance... DLE
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