Category Archives: Poems

aspects :

aspects

there was that decade of citrus lipstick
painted in shades of a ruddy cliff side
which had collapsed in the shape of a woman

that whole morning was a happy mistake
the light mandolin twang of alley bands
one thing freely plucked out of another’s hands

maybe I promised never to transpose
those echoes from the storm the night before
salt perfume, a frayed red cap, burnt pancetta

as our young captain gabbed each new line out
we got caught up, we gazed at the fresh snow
at the top of the island’s old volcano

it would all melt by midday, when we swam
trying to concentrate on those other
fish in the sea, colors of forgetfulness

I remember my heart of burning oil
on a hot engine, sunscreen in your beard
Divanti, diet coke, a yellow sundress

eyes, the green of unshelled pistachios
no, I couldn’t tell you when it surfaced
nothing for a while- then finally, a whale

I know the poetry had brighter aspects
but I was already blind in the sunshine
we only spoke briefly of Sedona

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each :

I will go mad if you do not write soon
muttering charcoal, gold spinnakers off
past oceans, my hair a compendium
a sailor’s book of every kind of knot

If I could backmask all your vinyl sighs
unzip the sky, refurbish the mountains
with your corduroy light, fevers drawn out
my own star, you are as cold as heaven

the world is a shiny gun, a bullet
that’s going to backfire, out of your hands
while I keep longing for yellow dresses
and meeting you in your Allen Edmonds

but each to his own, artful persuasions
Cezanne’s apples, and all the finished poems
of the Romantics- if you write at all,
it is possible, just I will read it

judging by, our love, the artist’s reward
I say this will be a year of first drafts
the way I sailed unversed frames on water
the day you gave each last painting away

#2016

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dirty laundry :

it’s just that
the last few days
I’ve been in the spin cycle
fervor, old cotton, a temperature
mixed with all the colors

that bleed into static
walled panels and dry humor

aye, that’s the scrub
balanced on a rusty rotating drum
did you think I would
read the instructions
I never did
no, I never knew exactly what
to hang on a line
or what would be
going to the mattresses
all this longing for
unfolding
though we argued about that from the very beginning

about all the buildup

to keep the machine going

and whatever kept you
– the exact change,

timing, water, cycles
always on the other side
of that glass door

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pins:

where is your sun-umbrella
your pancake batter & cuban posters
twirling nylon delights, graffiti vapors
slowly taking shape or a shadow darker
interrogating every permanent marker
where is your pin on the map
your piñata of adulthood swinging low
plait crowns and toothpaste ribbons
playful mettle & mottled syntax
your canary post-it note & brass tacks
where is your old moonwalk
your jubilance in the silk blindfold
chinoiserie, laughter, held-breath, applause
some fabricated tale in hand, a spin before you fall
you’re not the only one at the party to hit the wall

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epilogue :

epilogue

I imagined tenderness
sweat and agony
the new pain of straddling
another destiny
and the roar
of monsters chained
at the end
of the last cavern where there are only bones
a fable of conquest
with ample evidence that it did not appease
that mythic hunger
but required instead a surrender
far more ultimate in terms

I glimpsed horizons
of need and canons
the knocking
of a breeze off the ocean
a tide of admissions
wet as envelopes
seals and confessions
a cursive front
a borne rhythm on and on
the easy lapping of War ships
when there is no enemy
and the end, the end
I longed for

I wrote backwards
an enduring alphabet laid
out to dry, as fitting
on a short line
a fleet of armies and arms
wanting to hear your last serenade
a flag on the island
in the wind, what was only natural
but the jungle is sold
and the last wildness is in your eyes
still I wish I could meet you again now
for the first time
and explain everything from the beginning

Copyright © 2018 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·

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London :

London was an idea, or an eye
a stone thrown that could sink no deeper
a jar without a lid, a sound out of the speaker

beyond the bridge of murky sea-crossed mosaics
a spine bent back with words half-read
Jimmy’s strings you could not follow, a metronome of something lead

You and I outside in an English garden
a taste you told everyone was only earl grey and cream
a peak fare to the next junction, the blue eggshells of something broken free

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third story apartment :

my days like wooden matches within strike
pressed for moments, inciting fire by hand
fingertips to every surface flintlike
letters now tinder sparked from my inkstand
penned to entertain all foraging eyes
that graze upon a world of sights perceived
open, as is pleasant to imagine
them often, open, to contest and prize
effulgent fates that glow and are believed
to be bright, though suit a dream wherein

music through the window came at once to
fill airy corners of successive rooms
where memorizing the floorboard’s sinew
we fell out of step to our tuned heirlooms
for a verse we were relieved to forget
until melody found our reaching ears
open, as is very pleasant to keep
them often, open, for reminding yet
now without child’s strain to cement that hears
echoes through walls, isolating the deep

nuances on a tabletop resting
where sunlight is smoking when we awake
from dreaming to find our fingers testing
phrases we constructed before daybreak
building stories on our youth’s hammering
through connecting doors to architect’s play
open, left open, as is pleasant to
them often, ajar while all clamoring
intelligent arrangements steal away
home, though it was our homeless words we knew

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MARCUS (mumford)

a radio toothache, hours were not sailboats
mind spinning, trying to brush something off
July got caught under a rudder of ghosts
hours were not parachutes or goalposts lost
we gave them a chance to land on the cross
for a song to mark us then and mark us now
a stain in your cheek with all the old gloss
to one thing we constantly took on the brow
as gentlemen of the road always allow
on mint occasions, a sonnet echo
for a song to Marcus then and Marcus now
enameled moments stole a page although
I’d find the past written all over your face
no bookmark needed, I’d remember the place

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springtime :

the answers changed when Jacarandas turned
away to light crosshairs tied back with a ribbon
I set aside Japanese astronauts
if rust was imagined, that barn door bang notion
a stab in the dark, I had no ghost in the hall
no Poseidon seaweed, No Earthly Good reason
no filament stars, no hiccup dandelions
a stayed course of stars, of emperor butterflies

of history and hamartia basking
against stolen observations from Macallan
to Macchiato, the great sunrise shot
I was still hoping to tip the cross-fade scales and
ask you in the Springtime to sail your ghost of hymns
even though there are no seasons in Hawaii
your ocean of milkweed and postcards make me question
handwriting in blue ink everywhere, salt, and space

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often we are off:

offbeat, offkey, often we are off to see
dirt cheap wizards behind neon signs
in flickering electric memory
in polka-dot colors, chromatic designs
outside a chorus of whizzing rhymes
we find ourselves without a home
without the words we used to use
we find ourselves quite free to roam
on brick-road metaphors, if we choose
without very much at all to lose
from empty pockets of childhood bliss
with ruby shoes along strange terrain
where we lose ourselves in a poppy kiss
consulting exposed histories in the rain
to sing along, a horse without a tether
in a wonderful land of because, because
we can meet, I swear, whatever the weather
we can meet by the music of whatever once was

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epistolographer

Elizabeth Ganot · Letters from Islands · Poems and Seasons

Category Archives: Poems

aspects :

each :

dirty laundry :

pins:

epilogue :

London :

third story apartment :

MARCUS (mumford)

springtime :

often we are off: