THE BLAZON

Photos and video: D.R. Wagner

The 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