Saturday, December 1, 2007

Poem #2 (draft, E) - Coincidence, Perhaps

I mentioned a singer I like; you said you have his CD in your office
But you didn't have to tell me that -- you could have said you know the name
Perhaps you wanted me to stop by and listen

I'd been to Der Zauberfloete twice, when you offered tickets
But you set them aside for me
Perhaps you were disappointed when I didn't take them

That book you brought -- I was the one who took it home
But you brought it the day after I mentioned it
Perhaps you meant it for me

It was Valentine's day when you brought it
But you knew what day it was
And perhaps you suspected I'd have nothing else that day

Now that I've lost my fear of addressing you, I'm a thousand miles away
But I still wonder what you thought of me, really
Perhaps I suspected you cared

Perhaps you did

Poem #1 (draft E)

You mentioned your garden in the mountains,
And I followed.
The sun was breaking on the rocky path
When I arrived.
The snow all mixed together with the green,
And I could tell myself:
My heart is only racing from the climb, from the spring.

I paced, to calm myself before I knocked.

The man who opened the door was kind;
He is your son.
"Are you looking for my mother?
She is in the garden."


So I didn't get around to describing the scope of the blog. This blog is what I'm going to write in, every time I start missing the man or thinking of him too much. I need an outlet. I don't think that expressing emotions is necessarily good; "venting" may do more harm than good. This is my heart, not a boil that needs to be lanced.

Let me call Love #1, my past and current partner, my Partner. Love #2, the one I never talked to, is the Magician. The character referred to in Reading Lolita in Teheran as "my magician," is so similar to this man that I could have sworn they were the same person. But one is Iranian, and one is European, so that can't be the case. I never finished the book, because reading about Nafisi's magician was so intimate and painful.

My Partner and I were both classmates in the Magician's class. They didn't seem to like each other much.

Scope of the blog

I've been with one man in my life, and he is a wonderful, humane, literate, clever human being.

I'm also mentally ill. I do not see clearly at times. I accept full responsibilty for everything I have done, but I also protest that my judgment, at times, has been clouded through no choice of mine.

I have never actually been unfaithful. As strong as my feelings have been, as much as I have been unfaithful in dreams and imagination, I tell myself that real infidelity -- having an affair in real life, in real coffee shops and real hotel rooms, with a real human -- would be the first step on the slippery slope to suicide. I can carry regrets, but I cannot carry guilt. It would murder me. I am sure of this.

At the same time, it breaks my heart that the second man I loved, who never knew I felt anything for him, is someone I will in all likelihood never see again. I've moved halfway across the country, and I have no occasion to write to him or e-mail him. I miss him terribly.

I would have loved to be his friend. He seems to be a proud and, in a way, stern. I can't imagine him doing something that he truly felt to be wrong. I have reason to believe that he is happily married, and I do not think he would stoop to an affair. Friendship would have been possible, because I am sure that I interested him -- he liked my writing and showed real interest in what I said. I felt such warmth from him, but not in a sexual way. It was the warmth between two citizens of the same country who unexpectedly met in a foreign land.

I want to lay a book on his desk, of poetry, about how one human can love another human so much, even though they may be unknown. I will say, "I wrote this for you," and quietly vanish again.