8/10/10

The Most Wonderful Experience
By Michael Postel



I.

“Most Wonderful”

It falls on deaf ears

Interpreted and subsequently transcribed

As thoughtful play on namesake derived in innocent times.

It is this …



Most Wonderful because

A body in perfect symmetry

Houses homeostatic existence,

A meticulously carved figure manifest.

The absolute solution of universal energy

That is SHE

Against an intoxicating contrast of forces

For pure harmony yields at temple’s apex

Magnificent chaos

Spewing forth and flowing immeasurably

Forming dark, voluminous strands.

Any less chaotic, twisted, flowing complexity

Would result in compromising complete unimaginable agreement of structure.

The balance between a pair of opposites

Like the lull between changing tides,

An exemplar of true beauty.

She IS Most Wonderful!


II.

It was said

An artist loves from afar

But never wishes to obtain

And in so doing

Attains



Most Wonderful, often addressed by her lovers simply as

M W,

Was eagerly searching

When found boy playing Man.

His name was Bindra, but he

Hated the way the middle consonants forced

His tongue to the roof of his mouth;

So answered to B., instead.

B. knew it then, when he first discovered MW,

Or was discovered by MW, but said,

“If right; then right.

Enjoy it while it lasts.

It won’t.”

He prayed to be wrong.



III.

B. will be home soon.

You will love him more than before

Since he has been gone for so long.

Less, as time goes on.

Soon it will be as it was.

You will love him for a few moments in the morning.

Ignore him by the afternoon.

Forget him by evening.

Remember all his flaws?

Do you remember?

Will it be different this time?



Your expectations are of a dream,

A chimerical play in an exotic cerebral theatre.

All up on sugar and spice …

He dances home.

Smile brighter than before

And never frowns.

Eyes deep translucent green.

Hair tightly trimmed with streaks of sun-bleached blonde blending into kempt beard.

A man of men

Muscles with strength

And a new found staying power to match.



Head thrown, you try him out.

He bends you inward;

You fold.

Folding, he leans

Runs a hand through your hair

Whips back your head with a thrust.

Once spent, he strokes your hair over blueberry pancakes;

Even blueberry pancakes will grow tart in time.



IV.

Can you see B. scribbling on that card?

He waits to feel his racing heart retard.

The way a swoon, a sparrow, or a swallow will pause in between song.

He settles his mind and carries on …



“Most Wonderful,

Thinking of you and how I am

The happiest creature in the universe when I am with you

Less when without

But happy memories and images

Of our fleeting moments together keep my spirits up

Waiting impatiently for the next chance to …



Suckle on candied ginger nubbins

Breathe peach nectar from conic caverns

And savor that cake-like crystal amidst muffled conflagrations

Croak, creek, slide, and sway

Wash this rainy day away

Behind drapes drawn, dripping window panes



Love and best wishes

Least Wonderful,

Most Adoring

B.”



V.

B. always knew

Things would end painfully,

But he chose to love anyway.

He sensed loss

From the very beginning.

He foresaw sorrow, too,

But only amidst great love

And passion



Loss and sorrow cannot exist

Without first experiencing the comfort

Of complete happiness.

Though, he has not yet lost,

He feels it coming

The way achy joints predict

Pressure changes with approaching storms.



It will be great

And as tragic as any

Great changes of the time.

He will always remember it as the Most Wonderful Experience

Greater than that dish you made,

The delectable amandine.



VI.

There B. goes again

Scribbling feverishly on coffee-stained napkins

With wet, pin-point pen bleeding his thoughts into form

All those words he never meant to say



“Let us do one more trip

Back to France

Back to ParÍ

Remember when

We were happy?”



“Meet you at the café

Yes, I remember love,

Coffee with cream.

I will wait for you there

Finish your morning routine

You do not need all that makeup

But I will let you be.”

“Why do you ask?”



Why are we here?



“To amble through busy streets.

To slowly, for a change, pass through time

Wandering without direction

Your hand in mine,

To share each other one last time.

It has been four and one half months

I still fail to shake you from my mind

I am not fine, my love

I am not fine.”



“What is this, life?”

Love and loss

Bliss,

And in the same breath,

Ruins.

From which all other transitory emotions are spawned

Desire, longingly, until obtained

Then fear of loss settles

I am not fine, my love

I am not fine.”



“All is transitory

It is known but never spoken

Once lost, as is inevitable,

Desire weighs heavy until security is obtained again

The mind is strewn across this pendulum

It’s pivot being the only safe ground,

However unattainable

I am not fine, my love

I am not fine.”



“Please help me escape this place

To be free of duality’s reach

If there was a pill, I would swallow it.

Should there be a path, I would trek it.

Show me the sea, and I will swim it.

I am not fine, my love

I am not fine.”



“Emptiness is perfect

Come find me here

You can not

This no place

Can only be found

Without you near”



“Grounded in weighted love

A heavy heart bears fruit

All that water,

Such a heavy flow

Bursts forth through crooked banks!

Oh, but to be the water Lilly

To be the jelly fish

Just floating on”



“Do not write me anymore

These eyes can not read

Light these embers

Stoke this fire

Dredge up the dunes

To soak these tears!”



VII.

We were right to worry about him

If love were to lead to loss.

He can not cope,

Not within the confines of his routine.

See? Off he goes.



It is not likely

That he will survive long;

Less so that he will return.

His future, or vision of,

Is now gone.



When it is his time,

He asks to please bury him under the fruit tree.

You can enjoy him each summer.

He will never grow tart.

Just promise one thing:

Please share him with the birds, the foul,

And the furry things.


- - -
Michael Postel is living, studying and writing poetry in Brooklyn, NY. His mentors include the poet, Frank Fagan, and the writer, Deirdre Fagan, Quincy College Professor of Literature. He has been an economist, a farmer, a grocer, a traveler, and most recently, a writer.