Photos and video: D.R. WagnerThe Blazon is a 'list' poem that enumerates the physical traits of the beloved. It is an old French form. These came out well.
Myra Orgain
Mother
I wonder at my mother’s hands,
Those hands stained red, ruddy, raw with the chopping, the brushing,
The mending, the tugging, the pushing, the pulling, and the fine motor details.
Coarse and hardy as ginger root palms,
They’ve seen more wear and tear than the soles of running shoes,
But there they are, veiny and rude,
Beloved and endearing.
But if you search her eyes for the telltale signs of strain,
You’ll be disappointed- they survey the world with ease and calm,
Skipping off surfaces with the lightness of a water ballet,
Drifting over you softly like mountain mist,
Then vanishing into meditative caverns,
Hidden in a forest of thick lashes,
At last, they undergo a brisk metamorphosis into happy half-moons
Her back should be an angry snake,
After the many burdens she’s carried,
However, it holds itself with poise, regal as a Chinese empress,
With the strength and resilience of bamboo,
And when nature lets loose her reptilian rage
My mother never wavers the world she carries.
The song my mother makes
May not be as ambitious as the flight of the bumblebee,
Or as solemn as the nightingale’s lullaby,
But it tiptoes across me with allegro, careful not to trip,
And plays with minor curiosities,
It’s those idiosyncrasies that comfort me,
Cradle me in a web of sound,
High above whatever terrors mire the ground.
Most of all, it’s my mother’s perfume that gets me,
It haunts her clothes, a welcome ghost,
Oscillates in her footsteps like invisible pendulums,
Leaving fragile traces, a breadcrumb trail to sanctuary,
And as soon as my senses catch its tail
I am carried away by nostalgic currents
Washed ashore a time that’s no longer mine,
And all the more painful in her absence.
The fragrance is resin from a guzheng, candied plums and Peking duck,
Painted silk scarves, ancient jade in a wooden chest,
Tales from the time of chairman,
A little hummingbird.
(a guzheng is a Chinese plucked instrument.) ed.
Amir Begovic
Your skin,
Soft as fur
Golden brown with streaks of white
Sometimes, you think I only appreciate you for your skin
But you’re wrong
I like your silky hair as well
Your eyes,
You peer at me from atop a high golden mountain
I don’t deserve you
Of that you are sure
And yet you stay right with me
Crouched underneath my bed all night
Your hunger,
Honestly it’s getting ridiculous nowadays
All you do is sit with your face buried in the bowl
It’s all that gets you excited
When I pull out those tasty morsels
You run at me with the fervor
Like a warrior caught in bloodlust
Your ears,
They flop as you run
Each independent of your purposes
Batons directing sound traffic
At night,
Your jaws clamp on your cage
Screaming and writhing you tell me to let you out
I pretend I don’t hear
As I pull my covers over my ears
Waiting for you to give up and subside
I can’t let you out, see
Because then you never let me sleep
Your breath,
Faster than a hummingbird’s wings
As I catch you and pull you close
To my chest and coincidentally my heart
And I cajole you and tell you
I’m taking you somewhere good
You fight with my regardless
Trying to get back on solid ground
Your tongue,
Slick and small
Working furiously to lap up the lotion
That I use to make my skin soft
Vanilla oatmeal is your favorite flavor
If I recall right
You,
I got you as a whim
My intentions were jumbled
I don’t understand what is happening to us
Now
Coralie Donkers
What’s In A Name?
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,
And my dear, I wish only for your soft cashmere embrace
Downy feathers billowing around us as I fall into
Your perfectly carved arms, you are a horse born to race,
Breathing fire and exhaling the soft haze of morning fog
We are a continuum of heat
An oscillating cosine,
An intertwined web of limbs and emotions,
Melted chocolate pouring from your orifices
You spill my name from your tender lips,
Parting the red sea between dreams and reality
Your breath, an essence,
Scents the room with your musky mountain flavor
Your marble eyes,
Glistening like dewdrops after the first rain,
The shiny surface of new ice,
Reach down my throat
Like wisps of warm sunrises
Wrapping around my heart like a cocoon
Your sinful hand
Clasps onto my hips,
Drawing me into the painting of our future
Your sinewy fingers,
Long and slender dragonflies,
Fly your colorful touch through me,
Pulling out bad memories,
Underlining the good.
Your blood pumps through your tunnel veins,
A lion thundering through the savannah of your past,
Marking your territory on new goals and aspirations
Your collarbones, fallen logs for me to sit on
As your words trance me into nature’s meditation
Your hips, hinges on the doors that open
Upon your muscle’s calculated movements
The earthquakes of your abdomen ripple,
Shifting tectonic plates,
Changing our story with your every quiver,
You are the writer of our history,
Your every thought determines our present,
Placing our characters in plots like a god.
Your feet, stable redwoods to root your soul
In what you believe,
Pillars of strength and determination
You are perfection at its best,
the gold star above my manger
You are the sweetness of honey
The tenderness of a mother and the support of a father
You are the definition of every attribute,
And your name, my dear, escapes my memory.
Marie Cases
Switzerland
She sits in her seat on the plane,
looking out the window, at the pouring rain.
Off in a dream-like state,
she remembers his every trait.
The intertwining of his smile and eyes,
She knew immediately it would be her demise.
His twinkling stare sparkled into her
and the rest was kind of a blur
A flash of electricity, she remembers,
made her heart burn with embers
and her stomach fluttered...
She could barely speak, she stuttered,
when his smile turned into his speech.
To her ears, his voice reached,
a crescendo from a Rachmaninoff music sheet
So dark and so sweet,
a dark chocolate treat.
His blue eyes, so blue,
she could see herself in a canoe
out at sea, lost.
They could be as cold as winter frost
or as warm as hellfire,
the passion, the desire.
His hair, a maze,
seeming golden in the sunlight's rays.
Her fingers would travel his delicate curls
as delicate as pearls,
not in touch, but in essence
and their celestial luminescence.
His strength was equal to his esprit,
as powerful as the North Sea.
His temper was as influenceable,
dependent on the whims of the wind, unstable.
At times, a little kitten, his head on her shoulder
Others, he would smolder,
a fire burning without a flame.
She would wonder if she was to blame...
He embraced her before she left,
leaving her obsessed.
Alexandra Dempsey
It’s kind of hard to draw you.
I’ve tried,
but I always give up after just one mark on the page.
Your nose and jaw are the sketches I only see in my head,
a few casual lines, imperfect and implicit, create these features,
but their placement is impossible in my notebook.
I’ve also tried to discern your eye colour. You called them “brown.”
They’re not properly brown, and they’re a lot less boring than you think.
I’d have to say
your pupils are footprints.
The clay clouding in the clear river water blossoms out
and makes them look brown,
but when the sun shines through the green water,
I can see through the silt.
Your eyes are green around the edges.
Your shoulders must be those of a mannequin.
Clearly, they have been designed to make your t-shirt hang attractively.
In taciturnity, I have found
that the journal that will not judge
is your back. Tracing my fingers on your skin,
I can write to you all my silent thoughts and questions.
It is a thick notebook, firm but cushioned, smooth and cool.
Books make the best pillows.
All the spare uncial are your hair.
Every morning you gel the round, black letters into a neat order.
Is it any wonder I cannot resist braiding and weaving them into new words?
You generally shave off the accumulated scratchings and cross-outs
in a clean revision.
Your voice is not that of an actor. Your voice is the script.
That which is not composed of words is
steady.
The steam of a warm drink cannot be read.
It can be felt.
It can almost be tasted.
I can curl up around it on cold winter days,
and your breath will bring me comfort.
Benjamin Steinher
Footsteps in the hall,
the mailman heralds an envelope,
sealed with the wax of a centuries age.
The letter is signed to no particular name,
I could tell it was mine before it was put in the box;
her smell had teased my memory far too many times,
a pie on the windowsill was no match for her beauty,
which only smell can see.
The envelope is opened and read before I even realize
I’m back in my room.
The words were to be understood later,
all that immersed my mind were the scratching upon the parchment,
more commonly known as handwriting.
Her writing style is as unique as the fingertips that gripped the pen
from which the ink fell.
The words formed a letter,
but my heart knew there was a novel on that single sheet,
seen only with the microscope,
enlisted to one single person in the universe.
The human language describes this person as ‘the soulmate.’
My mind took the natural course of moving from language to
body language.
I remember our first embrace, a dance between strangers
whom had known each other since the dawn of time.
The sway of her effervescent frame, holding in a
soul as powerful as the creator of the creator,
who created the universe.
My memory moves to remembering myself during that dance,
never taking my eyes of of hers, the green belts with
golden sun splashes, all surrounding what looked like the key
to a chest buried deep within my chest.
Well, I might have taken a couple glances at her lips,
their redness beckoning me to move in closer, as they would
for many more seasons, never letting me get close enough to realize
why I suddenly was holding a microscope in my hand, with the instructions,
‘Two years may seem like an eternity. But shortly after,
forever will never seem long enough.’
Sam Reisman
Your Complexities
Your eyes, magnetic.
All opposite charges are drawn, not only mine
Piercing and metallic at times,
Nurturing and enchanting the life-rich forests at others,
Matched by only each other.
Your soul
Deeper than Eves motherly love.
A liquid flow of power
currents more fluid and refreshing than the warmest ocean
floating upon its own pureness
Legs and arms the gentle slopes of the Sierras,
falling quietly to meet alpine lakes
Delicate seahorses
Strong with inner power
They carry with them the most beautiful of flowers:
Your hands,
An intersection.
A team
5 independent firms solving the most moral of trials
convening in the center of truth
in the courts of matter and space
perfectly crafted, a model
Others crafting themselves hurriedly to match,
always unable.
capable in the most attractive of ways,
responsible yet powerful feminine symbols,
fitting perfectly in mine.
Lips of licorice,
Smile a blooming flower.
Sweet and intoxicating.
A springtime bloom with a fragrant wind,
more perfect a combination than a burger with fries,
not to mention, more delicious by far.
Qualities describable for ages,
too many to pick,
the array of beauties you display, immense.
A Lovable Louvre,
big enough form to wander contently for days.
Charisse Bongoo
The Blazon
Your eyes a mystery
A never ending pit of the sublime
Your blinking, a puppeteer to my heart
Harmonizing a heartbeat to your every move
Your hair an entangling field
In the wind, engulfing my body
Streams of independence and confidence
To shield your perfect imperfections
To form your glowing smile
A hidden work of art
Unseen by Van Gogh
Misunderstood by Poe
Unmoved by Monroe
Your heart, a pot of gold
Shimmering at the end of the arched journey
Overflowing with coins of care
Spilling out compassion
And filled to the brim with your love
Your voice resonating euphoria
Softer than your gentle skin
Yet stronger than a blacksmith
Forging your song which marinates my soul
In the endless galaxy of your melody
Your form a miracle
Encompassing the body of a goddess
Molded meticulously and made into perfection
Embodying that of the divine
Stephanie Hoogstad
Heavenly human, flawed god, forbidden enticement.
Your skin etched from marble,
So smooth and pale,
White like the moon
Or a hen’s precious egg,
And just about flawless;
What flaws are there
Are there with care,
As with the moss on the trees
And the holes in the leaves
And the dry grass of an autumn day,
All made by design,
Loved as perfect flaws.
Your nose,
A tribute to the cute little pug,
Crinkled in joy and laughter
And decorated with the skin
Of a light red, not quite ripe tomato.
Your eyes,
The beauty of the northern skies
Late at night,
Where the weary traveler rests
And gazes into them,
Finding the enchantment they had so longed for:
The sparkle in your eyes,
The rainbows dancing across the Arctic night
That lighten travelers’ loads
In their spiritual lives,
Just as your gaze lightens whatever load
May be killing me.
Your hair,
Thick as a black sheep’s wool
But soft as the panther’s luxury coat
And dark as the midnight sky
Or perhaps a horse’s eye,
Black but shining with depth,
Or perhaps as dark as the deep space void,
Where all is sucked into nothingness,
Driving a sane man crazy and a crazy man sane.
Your smell,
Chocolate and spice, ash and coffee,
And the serenity of morning dew
Your legs,
The thickness of a tree,
The sturdiness as well,
But the grace of a gazelle
Prancing through the savannah,
Built for rooting in the ground
But trained to fly in the air,
A crane that will not be moved
But will fly easily at will.
Your shoulders,
The broad face of an ancient cliff side,
Shaped for permanence
And a symbol of pride
Your smile,
A collection of pearls,
Crooked and small
But perfect for the flaws,
Hidden away like a treasure untouchable,
Stashed in a cave until its rightful owner,
Be it pirate or king,
Comes to collect it;
And when the cave does open,
The treasure radiates
And hypnotizes the viewer,
Snagging their heart in a well-laid trap.
Your embrace,
The comfort of a blanket
And the smothering of a jacket
Your laugh,
The jingle of a bell
On a bright Christmas day,
Bringing joy to the children
And lifting all hearts;
Sometimes a requiem knell,
So sweet and slow,
Signaling the doom of what could be love;
And the song of a siren,
So beautiful and tempting,
So dangerous and inviting,
So luring, taking me to my doom,
Enticing me to my emotional destruction,
Something to love and something to dread.
Krinjal Mathur
Blazon
Your eyes,
A painter’s impressionistic view of the sunset
The melting of colors upon a canvas
Unable to see where the painting ends and reality beings
The intertwined nature of an orange blossom on a tree
The kind nature of an awakening
With the drive of a warrior preparing for battle
Your smile,
A new snowfall
The pure joy catching snowflakes on your palm
Each one, holding the key to happiness
As each difficulty melts away
Your touch,
The rush of a falling waterfall
Its chill
Your breath,
The continuity of ocean waves
Crashing upon a shore, keeping the beat
Comforting like the limitless ticking of a clock
Each tick a sigh of relief
Just awaiting the next
Your embrace,
The effervescence of a spring day
The delicacy of a falling burgundy leaf
As encompassing as the clouds protecting a bird
Calming like the a mid-summer’s night breeze
Your voice,
The rustling of leaves on an autumn tree
Whispering its secrets
Falling only when the winds favored
Calmly subsiding
Your hand,
The flow of a wandering spring
Powerful as its source
Caressing past each bend and curve
Soothing in its disposition
Your heart,
A lion
Strong and pure in its devotion
Sean Gaffney
Perfection
Your skin,
The gentle warmth of the suns’ rays
Soft as a feather-touch
Smooth as glass
Your eyes,
Pools of beauty
Each a window to heaven
Each a gem,
Sparkling brighter than any light
Your laugh,
Could melt the hardest of diamonds
Could bring me back from the brink of death
Your voice,
A magnet stronger than the Sirens
More musical than any symphony
More beautiful than any sound
Your hair,
Black as a moonless night
Luscious as chocolate,
Your scent,
A delicate fragrance,
Sugar-sweet,
Intoxicating,
Your body,
Lithe as a jaguar,
Sleek as an otter,
Graceful as a cat,
Playful as a puppy
Your lips,
Cherry red,
Soft as mist
Your smile,
Perfection.
Ethan Katznelson
For You, My Love
Your eyes,
Like the brightest stars in the sky
Two shining beacons
Piercing the darkness
Giving light to the lonesome traveler
Your lips,
Luscious and soft
Like a luxurious pillow
Beckoning me with the temptation of soft embrace
Your tongue,
Twisting and turning like a snake
A beauty with the power to hurt when desired
Through words laced with venom
Your smile,
A fire on a snowy night
Radiant and rejuvenating
Warming the bones after a day of toil
Your hair,
Gleaming as if made of the finest silk
Spun on the loom for the finest of royalty
Creating desire in all those who gaze upon its majesty
Yet, if only you realized
That your hair is even prettier when down,
The silk wrinkled and displaced,
If only you believed me when I told you
Your hands,
Sensuous
Pulling me closer into your embrace
Made of the purest gold
A treasure chased after by all who see them
Yearning to be held close and to be shared with no one else
I don’t even mind the scratches left
In fact, I rather like them
You, my love
seductive
Kevin Dumler
The Blazon
Life, animal
Your hair,
a meandering creek through a meadow.
A gentle waterfall
Your eyes,
a blue sea enveloped in a globe a white.
Their gaze, my inevitable smile
Your lips,
lemonade on a summer day.
Clean sheets.
Your chin,
a keystone
Your face,
a night sky of starry freckles
Your smile,
A free gift to those around,
Like the morning sunshine.
Your laugh,
Stopped time
when gods smile
Your scent,
Fresh rain upon the desert dirt.
Your arms,
a spider dangling upon its silk.
An embrace after many years.
Your breasts,
An Elizabethan portrait
Your shoulders,
a fortress upon a hill.
Confident
Your hands,
a warm blanket on a rainy day.
A dove
Tensionless and gentle.
All of this, here, until I awake
Albert Hsieh
The beautiful one
`
Your smile,
Molded by the best sculptors on the planet,
Can be seen by the people in China.
The glow it gives off
Is brighter than the sparkling stars in the sky.
Your eyes
A calming ocean wave
That crashes into the sand.
The universe is your eye
That the astronauts get lost in
And the black holes
Just suck me into them.
You hair
The waterfall that flows through my life,
The silk I can rub my fingers through.
Your figure
More beautiful than Aphrodite,
Curvier than Lombard street,
Worshipped by many.
Your voice,
The sound angels make,
The whisper in the forest,
The rustle in the wind,
The chorus of a song.
Your legs,
A deforested land,
A baby’s butt,
A slip n slide.
Your walk,
The swan dance,
Raindrops in the pond.
Your smell,
One used in all perfumes,
The morning dew,
The ocean,
A rainbow.
Your hands,
A tool that reassures me,
Able to grasp onto the world.
Your presence,
The luxury to many,
The oxygen in the air,
The thing I need most,
In the entire world.
Michael Arbeed
Victory
Michael Arbeed
Your hair,
The mane of a lion,
The color of moist earth,
scented by the flowers growing within
weaved strands
the dimensions of my universe
Your brow,
A rich furrow in a fertile field
Your eyes,
The first light of the sun in the dawn-blue sky,
the mirrors which glean into my heart
the erasers of my thoughts
the voids into which I am lost
Your shape,
Lines drawn by a deft architect,
skewed by a deft god
Your skin,
The finest marble draped in the purest linens,
A rabbits fur,
Your lips,
Fine cashmere on a cold night,
A drink of water on a hot one
Your teeth,
The pearly gates of heaven
Your smile,
A beacon
Your voice,
The hymn of a church,
the laugh of a schoolgirl,
the clap of thunder
a mother’s lullaby
Your neck,
The slope of a snowy mountain,
adjacent to a vast valley
The fabric of a tent fit for royalty,
held taut by sturdy ropes
of veins and tendons
Your hand,
A marionette controlled
By god himself,
the instrument of my destruction
and my salvation
Your touch,
The burn of fire,
the chill of ice
Your back,
A rolling plain,
A field of clouds
Your legs,
The pillars of the Parthenon,
The trunks of an elder birch
draped in pure silk
Your scent,
Of bread to a starving man,
Of fresh air to a confined one,
An invitation
An aura
Your embrace,
A home,
an escape,
a victory
