February 20, 2013
writing about love
my son tells me that when I run out of ideas
to write about love –
and if I’ve written about love before
it should be easy –
I suppose it should –
but it rarely is.
some of the hardest poems I’ve written
were about love –
filial love, sexual love, bonded love,
platonic love, Greek love,
love of self or of youth, of beauty
of women or men
woman or man.
all I ever write about is love
in one form or another
and sometimes, I guess,
it is easy.
though you would never know it.
– Hoc Scripsi
February 14, 2013
sitting down to write a love poem
do you know how hard it is
to sit down and write a love poem
without it coming out sentimental drivel.
I want to know who you were
who you are now
and who you will be,
your history fascinates me.
as does tomorrow.
today I am with you
and glad of it.
– Hoc Scripsi
February 12, 2013
Sylvia – parts 1 and 2
Sylvia part 1
I listen to your voice,
late November,
reliving a moment long
worn away by time’s
passing
and memory.
did you mean to see it out,
taste of poison
fruits? or come
back.
all questions lingering
and a scar,
a very real scar,
traces round our heart,
I’ll show you if you come to see.
no charge,
no heart beats like ours
out of the ash, we sift
and sift, but find
no more
no phoenix burning
the midnight air.
Suicide – Sylvia part two
February, 11 2013
you are gone today
fifty years gone
left,
without a word
after
a lifetime of words
each neatly arranged
each carefully reviewed
a life meticulously considered
but
you no longer suffer
and
your pain ended
I wonder what your last words were
who they were to
a goodbye and kissing your children
perhaps
a goodbye and that is all
how are we to mourn
each passing hour
is a passing day
and this just another
poem
about your death
which you couldn’t write
anymore
you staggered
and saw it out
confessional until the last
asleep
on a pillow
the sun rising to meet its
worshiper.
– Hoc Scripsi
December 26, 2012
for K.
I have loved
now I love
I shall lie betwixt her breasts
in the mood merriment of playful jazz
lust or longing, a wandering
a melancholy jest.
the star of Venus of Heaven
the tragedy of Euridice
we dance the dance of Polyhumnia
and write the words of Callopie.
we are like children
under cover of moon’s somber reflections
memories vouchsafed lying
on night’s dewy grasses.
– Hoc Scripsi
the platitudes of willful resemblance 