The Woman Who Lived
In The Yellow House
With her face of secret bruised petals,
and her arms of wisteria outstretched,
leaning between the flaked pillars of the yellow
veranda.
how could she know suffering?
In her garden of yellow
Japanese chrysanthemums, made blue
by the romance of moonlight,
as a slight moon rising, the poet spoke to her:
But who are we to judge? he said
with his shy lowered eyelids.
And in the song’s end
the silence emptied its pity into a crystal glass,
he said.
While he was speaking she thought about her
thirst
and flies on newspaper bodies of children.
She fingered her pearls.
Then his eyelids opened.
When she read his poems, they clung to her
fingers
and when she touched wisps of hair
that fell across her visions, his poems
created tears.
She smiled. She did not understand
what happiness is.
The white paper of his words fluttered
like a small bird and a large bird
and crying and singing, speaking in tongues
of angels, of people.
She thought his words did not say anything at
all.
She would rather hear the green ocean
leaning through the window
of her yellow house.
In The Yellow House
With her face of secret bruised petals,
and her arms of wisteria outstretched,
leaning between the flaked pillars of the yellow
veranda.
how could she know suffering?
In her garden of yellow
Japanese chrysanthemums, made blue
by the romance of moonlight,
as a slight moon rising, the poet spoke to her:
But who are we to judge? he said
with his shy lowered eyelids.
And in the song’s end
the silence emptied its pity into a crystal glass,
he said.
While he was speaking she thought about her
thirst
and flies on newspaper bodies of children.
She fingered her pearls.
Then his eyelids opened.
When she read his poems, they clung to her
fingers
and when she touched wisps of hair
that fell across her visions, his poems
created tears.
She smiled. She did not understand
what happiness is.
The white paper of his words fluttered
like a small bird and a large bird
and crying and singing, speaking in tongues
of angels, of people.
She thought his words did not say anything at
all.
She would rather hear the green ocean
leaning through the window
of her yellow house.
Martin Willitts, Jr is a poet, storyteller,
and visual artist working with paper.
His fourth chapbook "Falling In and
Out of Love" is available from Pudding
House Publications (2005) and his
on-line chapbook about peace
"Farewell-the journey now begins" is
available on
www.langaugeandculture.net (2006).
His current publications include
Pebble Lake Review, Confluence
(anthology), Octavo, Rattle, MindFire
Renewed, FireWeed, Hurricane Blues
(anthology) and others. His paper
cut-out artwork using Victorian and
Chinese hua yang styles has been on
exhibit in small museums. He has won
many national storytelling contests
and was invited to Denmark to tell
many of the Hans Christian Andersen
stories.
and visual artist working with paper.
His fourth chapbook "Falling In and
Out of Love" is available from Pudding
House Publications (2005) and his
on-line chapbook about peace
"Farewell-the journey now begins" is
available on
www.langaugeandculture.net (2006).
His current publications include
Pebble Lake Review, Confluence
(anthology), Octavo, Rattle, MindFire
Renewed, FireWeed, Hurricane Blues
(anthology) and others. His paper
cut-out artwork using Victorian and
Chinese hua yang styles has been on
exhibit in small museums. He has won
many national storytelling contests
and was invited to Denmark to tell
many of the Hans Christian Andersen
stories.
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