"I Want to Be Touched Like Something in the MOMA"
grooveamatic
Posts: 1,374
There was a night
a moment a second a thought
a merest something
(you see, I cannot remember how long
it lasted
only that it happened
and the memories are like Polaroids
thrown past a window)
when you laid on a hotel bed
in only your underwear--
navy blue skin-tight things--
I watched you as I put my tie
around my neck and sipped hotel coffee
from a paper cup.
It was still dark and I hadn't slept
and a pale of cigarette smoke hung round the room
like a see-through wreath.
You were on your stomach, your hands
perfectly at your sides
as if you'd been carefully rested in a coffin--
upside down.
Your breasts pushed against the mattress
and the mattress pushed against them
causing just the sides to billow out from your sternum,
orange-sized segments of perfect skin,
the nipples hinted at in my memory.
The hotel hallway was bright,
too bright for that early morning hour,
and the elevator was bright, too,
and as I emerged into the lobby I saw
the world outside had changed
ever-so-slightly:
the sun must have poked just the smallest sliver
of it's orange head over some horizon.
The black sports cars in the parking lot
were illuminated the faintest degree
(it was that kind of light
where everything is fuzzy,
as though viewed through
a sheet of cheese cloth).
Somewhere in some thicket
beside the river which skirted the hotel
birds were beginning to chirp,
making morning-moving-around-noises,
their branches rustling with their weight.
There was dew on the manicured grass,
catching the particles of morning's first light.
I reached in my pocket for my keys--
they jingled loudly as they dangled in the air,
as I've always kept more keys with me
than I need.
Folks are always telling me it's not good for
the car's starter--
and, stifling a yawn, put the key in the lock
(the sound of the lock popping,
the door swinging on it's hinges,
and the muffle of it's closing
all seemed magnified in this arching light)
and inside the car smelled of stale smoke--
not like the hazy blissful smoke that must still have been hanging
in the hotel room,
but canned, incestual smoke,
smoke that you could eat if you were starving.
I undid my tie and unfastened the top two buttons of my
suffocating shirt
and pulled my undershirt up to my nose,
breathed deep.
It was the smell of you,
that flowery-powdery smell of you
and the smell of your breath
which is the smell of heat.
It made me hear you, once again,
in the grip of last night whispering
I want to be touched like something in the MOMA.
I put the car in gear and headed to my meeting,
imagining a world where the wind smelled like you--
and a world where you touched me
like I touched you.
a moment a second a thought
a merest something
(you see, I cannot remember how long
it lasted
only that it happened
and the memories are like Polaroids
thrown past a window)
when you laid on a hotel bed
in only your underwear--
navy blue skin-tight things--
I watched you as I put my tie
around my neck and sipped hotel coffee
from a paper cup.
It was still dark and I hadn't slept
and a pale of cigarette smoke hung round the room
like a see-through wreath.
You were on your stomach, your hands
perfectly at your sides
as if you'd been carefully rested in a coffin--
upside down.
Your breasts pushed against the mattress
and the mattress pushed against them
causing just the sides to billow out from your sternum,
orange-sized segments of perfect skin,
the nipples hinted at in my memory.
The hotel hallway was bright,
too bright for that early morning hour,
and the elevator was bright, too,
and as I emerged into the lobby I saw
the world outside had changed
ever-so-slightly:
the sun must have poked just the smallest sliver
of it's orange head over some horizon.
The black sports cars in the parking lot
were illuminated the faintest degree
(it was that kind of light
where everything is fuzzy,
as though viewed through
a sheet of cheese cloth).
Somewhere in some thicket
beside the river which skirted the hotel
birds were beginning to chirp,
making morning-moving-around-noises,
their branches rustling with their weight.
There was dew on the manicured grass,
catching the particles of morning's first light.
I reached in my pocket for my keys--
they jingled loudly as they dangled in the air,
as I've always kept more keys with me
than I need.
Folks are always telling me it's not good for
the car's starter--
and, stifling a yawn, put the key in the lock
(the sound of the lock popping,
the door swinging on it's hinges,
and the muffle of it's closing
all seemed magnified in this arching light)
and inside the car smelled of stale smoke--
not like the hazy blissful smoke that must still have been hanging
in the hotel room,
but canned, incestual smoke,
smoke that you could eat if you were starving.
I undid my tie and unfastened the top two buttons of my
suffocating shirt
and pulled my undershirt up to my nose,
breathed deep.
It was the smell of you,
that flowery-powdery smell of you
and the smell of your breath
which is the smell of heat.
It made me hear you, once again,
in the grip of last night whispering
I want to be touched like something in the MOMA.
I put the car in gear and headed to my meeting,
imagining a world where the wind smelled like you--
and a world where you touched me
like I touched you.
.........................................................................
Post edited by Unknown User on
0
Comments
i love the way you brought back the hotel room's atmosphere in the fourth verse. thanks for this.
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
There's a quote from Hemingway, "never be afraid to murder your darlings" - I'd say save the MOMA line for another poem, and let this one stand without it. It's damn good.
Also, I don't think you need any of these: ()
the lines seem a bit jarring with them in there. Alright there's my two cents, I'll be waiting for my change.
Kudos
take a good look
this could be the day
hold my hand
lie beside me
i just need to say
I thank you for your comments, ETE, and your constructive criticism is more than welcome. I can see what you're saying about the MOMA line, but at the same time, it continues to effect me when I read it, and as long as it does that, I can't see changing it or moving it to another poem--this poem was designed around it. As far as the parentheses go, I am always getting that particular criticism, but alas, they are part of my style, my cadence, my own particular voice...they are not without meaning or reason, they exist as a chorus of sort or an interior monologue. (When I read them, I actually see an improved rhythm, as opposed to a jarring effect...not an iamb-type rhythm, mind you, but a rambling rhythm, Salinger-esque, if you will). At any rate, I fear I myself have now rambled...thanks again ETE.
It does that to me, too.
I don't know as much about writing as EvilToasterElf but to me it looks like saying something sotto voce in music...suddenly under your breath, to yourself. So it works for me when I see the things held under like that.
It seems I'm out of the loop here, what is MOMA?
Museum Of Modern Art
take a good look
this could be the day
hold my hand
lie beside me
i just need to say
ahh, interesting.
Fair enough, but it doesn't matter how the line effects you, what matters is how it effects the poem. I've written entire poems to later throw everything out but a single line or phrase, and I've written poems around entire phrases only to find out it doesn't fit in the poem anymore.
Just be on the lookout, sometimes a brilliant line can be your worst enemy.
If you keep writing, I might just visit more often, so thanks for that.
ETE
I see what you're saying, but we just have different philosophies about writing, which is bound to happen from time to time. (Obviously, many people do...I hate Ezra Pound but of course many people love his writing)...I go through phases of hanging out here alot, but it's been over a year since I was around frequently...you'll see me again, to be sure. Thanks again for the comments ETE.
I enjoyed reading this. Whenever I see your tag, groovematic, I always think of that one poem of the woman who was ill so I always have a reference point . . . how has Mr. Groove developed over time:) You definitely have your own style as others do on the board.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
what i thought reading that line was, when you see a work of art and are moved by it, you want to run your fingers over and feel it, caress it even,
to get more of a sense of it. i find i feel that way with sculptures a lot.
take a good look
this could be the day
hold my hand
lie beside me
i just need to say
I mean for a woman to say that is kindof cool. It's like . . . pretend you're not suppose to touch me, that someone may find out, yet I'm this level of art that you crave me . . . or something like that. Groove, your poem may focus on the unique art aspect, to touch art, and I was thinking a little off with what it's like to touch something untouchable.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
i have to admit when i read that line, i sighed. i love that line. and your right ms.haiku, for a woman to say that is cool. to feel secure enough with her lover to say those words is a turn on in itself.
take a good look
this could be the day
hold my hand
lie beside me
i just need to say
I am not too fond of the MOMA line, but it's the reason this beautiful piece of writing exists... so all is good.
is it like Moe Mah, or Ma Ma?
I honestly didn't know what you were talking about in the title line.
Anyway... save that line, I'm with ETE, the piece is gorgeous. Thanks so much
Moe Mah.
And thank you veddy much.
She actually said that to me...I didn't make the line up.
I know to everyone else that line sounds romantic, but to me I can't get the idea out of my head that an art work in a museum would feel so lonely and desperate to be touched that to say you want to be touched like something in the MOMA sounds like you haven't been touched in so long and you need it.
That is an astute observation. I couldn't agree more.
How can it not matter how much a line effects the author?
very good job..
"Hear me, my chiefs!
I am tired; my heart is
sick and sad. From where
the sun stands I will fight
no more forever."
Chief Joseph - Nez Perce
The author's irrelevant.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Intentional_fallacy
god fins we're not gonna get into barthes' death of the author theory are we?
take a good look
this could be the day
hold my hand
lie beside me
i just need to say
Why not? Seems like simple enough stuff to grasp, if you ask me.