In her sight I see her
boldly timid eyes flicker
with the awareness of a long look
at the rising blush
provoked by our interchange of stares;
and surging in our blood the passion flares.
The words flow with the rythm
of waves and sensual undulations
dancing on the page--
she falls to the seductive magnetism,
looks away to our eyes,
lets the words mesmerize.
We're solitary corners, joined
in a triangle in a circle of eyes,
where sounds drown
in the tempestuous tangle of thoughts
of the fleshless touch of silken skin
rich with carresses of imagined sin.
Fleeing a vision of pleasure
She finds the revision is pleasure;
She's trapped in the words that suggest
"let the skin touch as flesh,
let the sin come true."
She is you--
Your eyes are pure as crystal,
clear as sin
and in this game
you cannot win.
Bernie and I (and Allan) had engaged for a few weeks in an informal friendly competition over who could present the sexiest poem to our poetry workshop. One day, as the three of us gathered after class in their dorm room, I noted that a certain very beautiful Freshman girl had been staring at me quite blatently over the last couple weeks.
"Jason," said Bernie mournfully in his Dominican-cadenced New York accent, "I hate to have to tell you this, but she looks at me too." No matter how I tried, I couldn't budge him, that I meant not "look," but "stare," that she was looking at me differently.
Next class, I sat on the opposite side of the circled discussion group, instead of together with my compadres of the pen. It was immediately clear that Bernardo had been correct. In fact, she would gaze at me until I looked toward her; she would start a little, and immediately commence gazing at Bernie, until he looked toward her. Bernie and I could barely conceal our glee as we nonverbally cooperated in our silent public experiment. Her behavior was as regular as clockwork. (To Allan's frustration, he didn't appear to be included. Sorry Allan, guess that sweet little white girl wasn't quite ready to build a fantasy life with a tall Haitian man.)
So Bernardo and I wrote this poem together, in one of the few poetry collaborations I've engaged in. Next class, we sat together, and read the poem aloud, alternating stanzas as the class followed along on their photocopies. Almost immediately, the girl flipped her page-boy haircut over her face, so that only her scarlet ears were visible.
Strangely enough, perhaps because the class was familiar by now with us playing the "three guys in black" who wrote sexy poems, no one but the teacher noticed anything was afoot. "Is this poem addressed to anyone in particular?" Bernie and me looked at each-other, then back at the teacher -- David Kelly, a truly great workshop leader -- and simultaneously bald-faced lied: "No." Thank God, our teacher, a very clever bard, while non-verbally communicating that he didn't believe our response one single bit, dropped the subject and continued the discussion.
The girl, however, again deeply flushed, immediately approached us as class ended. I have her words recorded as being approximately "That, that, you two... Now that was very... clever. Ver-ry clever." We three went straight from the class to the college union snack bar for a coffee.
illusration and web page by JASON PAUL FOX
You MUST credit my authorship when reproducing this poem in any way!
(It's OK to give my poem to friends or people at school, if you credit me and don't make money off it)
2007 Jason Paul Fox