the violet hour

 I introduced you to Eliot’s The Fire Sermon a few days ago. You may recall “the violet hour” and the theme of sex in its dire aridity. Violet is a colour that is often linked to sexuality. Today I am going to share with you a poem of interior monologue I wrote some time ago on a parallel theme of sexuality, desire and love. Not an easy piece to understand , but I hope you’ll enjoy trying.

the violet hour

The bed is sheathed in body struggling with penumbra jarring love strings I cannot bare to share so I retract like anemone when touched by body afraid of intimacy not god-given but mine borne from whim of wanton I am not sure which part of me and when my mobile stirs to murmur rescue I jump at the call for freedom from burden to share with whomever whatever thwarting  the moment I dread which returns like darkness to light once words run dry leaving dearth of weapons to wield with wilting thrust counterfeit lust struggling for submission with devout consummation hardly to be wished so I think of him and search beyond this perfect pageant of hoarding human fuss to find in the oblivion of this night his surreptitious glance torn from the  midst of mediocre mass and when I feel his eyes delve I shudder with ripples from pebble thrown into the stillness of urge to sculpt this monolith of words with chisel of breath embroiled within life's revealing masterpiece interred in slab lifting marble dust just dust that clouds and clouds and clouds