I’m currently in school learning to be an optician. Today we were discussing divergence and convergence, amongst other things. As we drew incident and reflected rays, focal points and convex mirrors, I couldn’t help but think of the beauty in the idea of two parallel rays converging to a point. I wrote this poem and I felt like a bit of a nerd since I’m writing an optical love poem. Part of me feels like I’m name dropping by using terms like “fovea” and “sclera,” but I like the juxtaposition of technical and romantic ideas. I like the word “incarnation” in this poem too because it has such religious connotations that you could read it as deifying the eye. Likewise, poetry (especially classical poetry) often raises the subject of a love poem to a perfect, godlike status, so I like the contrast. Anyways, that’s this poem. I just wrote it like thirty minutes ago, so I haven’t had too much time to absorb it (haha….an unintended optical pun), but I think I like it.
Two rays of light met
at this focal point,
converging to form a
real image
that never seemed likely
in this plane.
Like magnets we collided
and walked
and explored
and we formed a beautiful image
(I saw you and you burned a place on my fovea, where rods and cones and every piece between sclera suddenly became more beautiful and more perfect than its previous incarnation, seeing for the first time what sight was intended to see)
and so we looked into each other’s eyes.
There’s a peace that comes
in knowing that everything is okay.
All alright.
Okay.
It’s okay.
I’ve seen people get worked up over nothing
traffic
a cold sore
the weather
but in the end, there’s nothing scary
in this world.
Nothing can touch us.
Tiptoe around
creaky carpet clad sock feet
cool air current currently
in the summertime when the air is less fresh.
Modify modification
turning the screw and doing whatever
the not so quiet quiet ones always
ask to do. In view of all things
holy
and considered
considerably Ash Wednesday and Jesus not so distant
as before and after Christmas.
Considering the cool air sweeping underneath
on a day less important.
There is nothing so comforting
as finding you waiting,
and finding you at all
leaves me smiling, elating.
There’s a peace that comes
when you rest in my arms,
and a desire to be more
than my jokes and my charms.
When we’re old and we’re breaking,
when our youth’s had its fill,
I’ll smile and I’ll kiss you.
I’ll adore you still.
It’s not quite raining, but it wants to
open up.
The garden fears drowning if it
gets anymore.
The birds just want to fly and sing
the songs taught to them by their parents when the
world was much simpler and less esoteric.
The snails are in waiting - ready to be thrown onto the
sidewalk - making their peace with God for the inevitable
crush
under foot of a rainy day, or the child’s salting
upon finding one intact.
A dog with its nose at the window has a spring in its step at
the thought of a walk in
the rain
or five minutes to dig in
the mud.
A cat takes shelter on the porch
swing or under the bird bath - wherever a dry spot can be
found where one’s fur won’t get so wet.
The grass stands tall. Resilient, as grass is, and proud to
endure any storm that may come.
For now, though, it is quiet and not
quite raining
and the garden has not flooded
and the birds can still fly.
The snails are still alive
and the dog can chase the cat
on the apathetic lawn.
I push my tongue to the back
and try to make the “ng” sound
that you make fun of me for.
I try and try but it’s always,
“Naw” and “No! Stop the
hard ‘n!’”
Wo ai ni.
Mandarin’s easier.
Wo ai ni - no “ng” -
it trips me up.
I will practice and practice though
and continue pushing my tongue
to the back.
I will master the “ng” sound
so that one day I might be
able to say what your grandparents
once said to each other.
我愛你
Ngo ngoy lay.
I love you.
This is my first Evonne Der poem, although she likes to point out that I didn’t write this poem for her since I started just writing a poem about the enjoyment of jumping in puddles and brought her in later. I disagree though. I was happy enough to write a poem about jumping in puddles because my mind almost never deviates from thinking of her and since she makes me happy, this poem happened. Not much to really explain here. It’s a pretty simple poem. It’s grown on me a lot since I first wrote it. I’ve never been much of a writer in this genre, but I’m pretty happy with this poem.
I jump in puddles
and sing Rogers and Hammerstein, oh!
what a beautiful morning!
In a cacophony of water,
I spin and dance, deliriously happy
and boyish with a fluttering
heart that pounds like a Tchaikovsky cannon
announcing, “Here come the French!
Here come the French!”
And over its pounding I laugh
and say, “No.
Today is the greatest!
Today is the greatest,
and tomorrow will be better.”
