by By Gavin W. Smith
A schoolboy to a schoolgirl says:
Lift up your skirt and let me see
What I’ve been told of your mystery.
And schoolgirl to schoolboy replies:
First show me yours, it’s only fair;
I hear, too, a little mystery’s there.
White wings flicker in the wind
Like an open flame; they catch alight
And are uplifted in a thermal sigh.
The dome of clouds is scythed apart
And left in halves, ablaze
In a White Bird of Paradise’s tail.
Learning to Draw by Gavin W. Smith
I learnt to draw
So that one day I might draw you.
I know the sight so well,
Yet it’s harder than it looks.
The outer lines are easy,
If I have them near to trace.
My memory is picture-perfect,
But my hands can’t seem to grasp
The subtlety of curve and plane
That nature has so seamlessly bequeathed,
Let alone to fill them with the colour
That flourishes in countless hues
Upon your flawless face.
If I could master but one shape
It would be the almond of your eye;
Those ripened arcs and tapered slopes
That tilt a curved mirror to the sky.
And if colour should ever lend itself
To some miraculous finesse,
An accidental mastery
Of some far bolder curve or plane,
Then let it be a shade of bronze
With a reddish golden hue
And crystal flecks of light
To reflect that vital burst of life
To which my eyes have grown accustomed.
If I could get a bit-part right
My efforts won’t have been in vain.
Accident alone will not suffice
To say my hand has held aright
To what my eyes so eagerly recall,
And what my thoughts so readily contort
In dreams, or indecorous lapse of mind.
Such as it is, I will go on
And, piece by piece, refine both mind and hand.
And though vitality escapes the page,
Or indiscretions of proportion mount,
I will go on and learn to draw That one day
I might draw you.
Kess of Bacchia by Gavin W. Smith
(Note on Kess of Bacchia: this was written some years ago, and is, as such, quite rough. I have not sought to edit it, as it was a profound expression of love and youthful enthusiasm.)
I Roam the Woods of the Satyrs’ Endless Night
To catch a glimpse of Her. To see Her
Caress the waters’ of the lake.
An act mere mortals call swimming,
The routine of bathing by the moon’s light.
But She, wading the shallows,
Every wave about her supple flesh
Refusing to depart and ripple onward.
She does not bathe, for she is carried
By the water. Ever droplet yearning;
If only to caress Her once, from head to toe,
They would carry Her about across the lake.
Beneath the moon, that always seems to shine
Upon Her. Glistening off her curves as she glitters
On the lake like the stars above.
Even the trees sway toward Her,
And whisper with the winds, Her name.
Flowers like a lusting adolescent
Cannot but bloom too soon for Her
And burst in premature petals; their love.
And she, unaware or unconcerned
By it all. Perhaps used to it by now
That so many watch Her, adoring.
Or with fantasies of what can never be
Swelling their tongues and their loins.
Possessed of all the fullness of charm,
Mere seduction in her passing by;
A pleasure to all the senses.
She cannot but be desired by all in nature;
It is the justice of Her beauty.
You are but a flower in the forest.
You watch her emerge on the bank.
Sprites who spring from both woods and lake
Embrace her with a veil of silver
That clings to her still-moist body.
Enrapt as any eye, embracing every curve
And sacred grove. Every subtle arc of flesh
And flex of muscle, bestowed a silver lining,
Every shiver shimmering like the ripple on a pond.
Ever step a grace for eyes’ delight.
She dances around each and every tree,
And beneath each bough.
Her skin still drips with water
That splashes to the ground.
The earth seems to tremble
Wherever she treads. Shy from the touch
Of a beautiful woman, like a young boy.
Even the delicate lilacs, burgeon
As she nears. And wilt as she walks passed
Without a glance.
Fairies flitter about her brow,
Weaving, adorning her with laurels;
Her beauty, nature’s prize amongst all;
She casts them aside with simple gesture,
But smiles as she does.
The Satyrs gather behind her,
And play their music, and dance.
Gesturing and beckoning her to join.
Some tug at her arms, and abscond
As she shakes them away.
Unashamed and erect, they dance.
Pouring wine about her feet.
Lapping it from her footprints
As she keeps her pace, steady and fluid.
No notice of their offerings.
With fury they sing, and chant Her name,
And drink, and masturbate, those
Who can no longer contain their frenzy.
You watch as She smiles, mischievous,
At the debauched serenade.
She loosens the silver veil, tightly wound
About her body, and lets it drop to her feet.
There… in full glory, She is. Her own radiance
Lights the surrounding trees, as all nature
Lets out a collective sigh, and every Satyr
Groans in pleasure, and all and one soon
Become silent. Their breathing heavier;
Steadier; almost in unison. Even yours,
Rhythmic and deep, in the throes of satiety;
A symphony echoing…
Drums sound. Horns blow.
The soft growl of every Satyr turns
Into a howl. Forced high in to their throats.
Their hands releasing all that they hold
As they pull at the hair upon their chests.
You hide behind a towering oak,
Though it wretched with age,
As the silhouette of a man, a True Man,
Steps out. A chalice in one hand,
His free hand, high into the night air.
His fingers click, and a purple light
Rises from the ground, coalescing
With the golden light from Her,
And the blue light from the moon,
Permeating through the canopy.
He stands naked, a more beautiful man
Envious eyes have yet to lay upon.
Even the floating faeries are in awe
Of His perfect form, well endowed
Of every muscle of His body.
His eyes meet Hers, and they linger.
He caresses the air before him
As he traces Her curves from afar;
As the woods’ themselves sigh,
And She quivers, though untouched.
He turns and She walks to his side,
Taking the chalice, she drinks.
The Satyr dance and sing
And thump their chests,
And bring themselves back to frenzy.
The music grows louder as they walk,
Hand to hand, down the path that seems
To clear away with every step they take.
How perfect they look, you think to yourself.
But you swell with a fury.
Your frenzy is not lost for her.
And you follow. Light from torches
Grow closer with every step,
As the music and the singing,
The moaning and chanting draw nearer.
An aroma of wine and sweat,
Mixing together, wafts and weaves
It’s way down the path to your nose.
The Satyrs have already caught scent
And raced out of sight, ahead and howling,
Distortions of flesh, and fountains of wine,
In places mixed with blood,
As the light from torches dances with shadow
Upon the obscene and grotesque scene.
He, who is called Bacchus, with her hand
In his, steps upon body after body,
Guiding her across the writhing sea of flesh,
Effortlessly. She, still graceful as she kneels
To fill the chalice with the flowing wine.
With her finger, across a young girls back,
She takes a sample to her lips, and smiles.
He mounts his throne and claps his hands.
All and one stop, and rise to their feet.
Every eye upon the beautiful woman
Who wanders the throng of bacchic revellers.
Bacchus watches with intent, His eyes fixed
As every other eye. You see the look
Of anticipation in every face that follows her.
Hope. You know that look in your own reflection.
As if this scene has played out before. Many times.
You know what that smile is on her face.
He knows it too, as he rises from his throne,
Now erect, and calls to her, his arms out-stretched.
His Satyrs keeping the younger maidens who clamour
At bay. Some taking liberties with the young beauties.
He sings with such a beautiful voice
As a chorus forms behind him:
Three satyrs; three men; three women.
Who sing accompaniment, as music
rises from the depths of the forest.
He sings a story of high romance,
Of a girl, who from birth was destined
To be His most glorious mate.
She, sprung from the fount of beauty,
The flowing waters where all nymphs bathe.
She, the most beautiful of them all.
No curve of her form lacking measure;
The envy even of Goddesses who watch;
But even they could not but adore her
As she rose, saturated and gleaming,
All present, held fixed, as if the rhythm
Of paradise had been disrupted
And replaced by something new: Her.
Each adjusting in Her presence
Like eyes to the glorious sun.
She is to be his, and only his.
The Queen of All Flesh, her title.
And they would rule all the forests,
Hand in hand, making love. His fidelity,
Secured for her, for the first time.
The envy of every Bacchante,
If only she would take it,
And don the mantle of his bride.
He offers her all Bacchia each night,
And each night waits on her reply.
She wanders where Her eye takes Her
While He sings in His rhapsody.
She greets the youthful onlookers;
A smile, and deep lustrous gaze;
The simple power that she wields.
All the throng surrounds Her,
To look upon, and be looked upon
By Her. The bestow of Her Grace
In Her presence; He would have it, too,
He would have it more,
He would offer more than any could.
And She knows it.
But Her virtue demands still more.
That prize, always out of reach,
Her will unbroken.
Hers’ is the greatest prize,
Sprung from that Womb of Beauty,
Where all nymphs bathe. Hers,
And Hers alone to decide. Beyond
The grasp and grope of destiny.
How he hates that he cannot take
What he desires. But he cannot
Relent in his pursuit. Endless Nights,
Revelled just for her, in her name.
He cannot recall how many now.
She turns back toward the opening
And the path that leads here.
You watch as she passes all the faces,
Tinged with gloom, yet still with adore;
Bodies deflated, as if She
Had drawn the air from every mouth
And left them empty. It is one thing
To suffocate in the rarity of Her presence,
It is a bliss; but Her absence robs
The scene of all life.
Bacchus blushes, his lip curls.
You have never seen him look this way.
His head slumps but his eyes
Are attached to her form, now
Disappearing through forest.
The Satyrs cry out, and chase off
Down the path, no longer in joy.
They grovel; they lay at her feet;
Pluck flowers, hastily, and throw them
They share their masters’ pain,
But She will have none if it.
She will return to the waters,
The fount and abode of Beauty
Until the next Endless Night,
And avail Him, yet another chance
To woo her to his love.
But She is beyond the reach
Of any man, even Gods.
Her Beauty is untouchable.
Why Jesus Wore Sandals by Gavin W. Smithhttp://by-words.tumblr.com/
I lashed out at a stone in rebuke
To gravity’s abuse of my rear-end,
For having given it a kick
With the hard-capped edge of earth;
But finding that stone a crusted-over bolt
Still anchored two-feet down
I broke my toe and let out a howl.
Duly chastened, I had learned
That one rolled ankle and
A soft-tissue bruise pale in comparison
When you kick without shoes.
For a Young Soldier- By Gavin W. SmithIt was not meant to be this way. I know.
There are better ways for young men to die:
Of old age with families and a wife
By your side to see you through the final hours.
We do not begrudge you the choice you made.
To serve one’s country is the highest honour.
That honour is yours, and we honour you.
This country’s heart is in your breast, and yours
Will rest in hers. You can sleep deeply there.
We will keep the watch you kept for us:
Over you, your family, and the land
You gave your life for. We shall not forget.
Polka Dots by-words
You’ll never see a puckered brow
Entwined with polka dots.
For polka dots would not allow
Themselves to tie such knots.
You’ll never see them tangled so;
They only ever smile.
That’s all they ever care to show,
Woven deeply in their style.Above the Bread-Binby-words:
Above The Bread Bin
Her breasts stick out like bread loaves in a bin
Of wicker-weave that’s buckled under wear:
The kind we keep, inadequate to store
Supplies, but for the look it has; and though
We know it has no hope to hold its fill,
We keep in spite of it, until it’s clear
The buxom bend has gone too far – and then,
Just as it’s too late to catch the over-flow,
We shift the weight and almost over-throw
In vain attempt to keep them off the floor.
We must grow, you and I,
As one into an open sky.
Where bird-song can be heard
And white clouds pout, and roll on by.
And we, without a word,
Can share a thought with gentle sighs:
The passing of a bird
Is proof that you and I
Were meant to grow side-by-side.
“Oh, lay me down this once,” she said to me;
And oh, how duly I would oblige her!
Were it not for the grains of conscience
Scattered in the balm of my desire.
A tactless blend if ever there was one,
As the sensuous mood is rendered coarse.
Unpalatable to sense or notion;
Impervious to persuasion or force.
Dilemma, oh moral dilemma!
Whether wilful uttered words can undo
That silent-spoken mantra of the soul.
Where passion and the rational collide,
How does one decide?
by Gavin w Smith
The poem has a flow all of its own
That you, with fingers running light, must find.
It is there – follow or be swept away!
Do not turn to fight the current, but swim.
Do not dive too deep – or too long if you do.
You will miss the scenery as it passes
And drown; never having learned to tread
From those who make it flow and know that water
Is at once the stuff of life and death.
by Gavin w Smith
I loved her for her fruit and fruitfulness.
How she blossomed at my fingertips
That tickled her chin and teased
The hotness from her breast.
She ripened and I let her bend the bough
Near breaking point,
That aching point,
That yearns to throw up its arms
And let the apple drop and strike the earth
With a bruising thud.
Only to pluck it before it falls
With a gentle twisting motion,
Pulling it a little further down
Before it breaks away
And sends the bough-arms shuddering
With a force that ripples through every limb,
And every fruit not as yet borne.