Why I Love Sylvia Plath
She holds my pen
between her wet palms,
the way she writes.
And not looking
at the notebook of man
between her thighs,
she leads the pen
through its lush pages,
beautiful, like the petals
of a scented orchard
to the root/chapter in red.
How colourful is a woman
beneath the arms
of a man she has given
all of her dreams, spectral?
Being beautiful is life’s climax.
“Crucify me, Jesus”she says.
Fertilize me, she meant.
So I lift the joy of her sorrows
on the cross leaning on me,
and save her from singleness;
the things poetry can do.
The things a man can love, or give
his life for, when a woman is his equal,
sweet and independently at peace/ one
with me in the trinity; Love, love again,
and love eternal. The endless reading
of God in heaven.
I took off the sun’s halo
on my outdoors hours and
slog, and my day, beyond hinges.
Said my prayers with love and
lamp in the dark, my belief open
to answers or stars, particularly winging,
as of angels,or of chandeliers,
paired with flowers, blue in God’s
hands, the rosaries talking about
how in the beginning I was both
man and heaven, creating gardens.
Someone hears me, my lover/ heart.
She comes with credo and music.
” Hold me” she says. I hold her as one hold
unto faith. She is magic. She is miracle.
The stars fall. The house accepts its doors.
The children grow with each kiss. I fall
with the stars into her, their mother;
the home, sexual, more than just bodies
finding a bed, finding arms wide as forever.
The Personification Of Rose
is the colour
Salvador Dali ‘s
till my night mixes
with her day,
Woman in eclipse.
How can one describe a flower
growing from red passion?
with the clouds
in your finger,
and a tongue.
If she comes/cums,
make her a garden.
image source; flickr
About the author
Tares Oburumu is a graduate of philosophy and religion from the University of Benin. He’s a lover of God and his daughter, Sasha.