First Love Ode

Some old poems

When I was in high school I had a lot of fantasies. One recurring one was that this cute girl two blocks away would show up one night and knock on my window and we would be m a g i c. . . She never did. She never even knew I liked her.

When I was in college I had what I would call my first love. We met at Eastern and then she moved away. We corresponded the old way, with letters, for a year or two. Then the letters stopped.

Jump Start (Part 1)

Go for a walk, 
	I think 		—	I need
	To think	it out.
			So I step out onto
			The veins of the city —
			I watch the gray
			Rush by	my shadow
			Splashes…
How should,			can I
Handle this?		Not 
Well.
The problem?		Well
Not a problem			but…
She’s a long ways away
And I’ve not seen her —
Physically	— 		only seen her
Thoughts		on paper.
Written to say, 	“I 
Love you”	—		“sort of”.
			I turn automatically
			Drifting away from the roars.
			My mind is full of glacier water and
			My shadow’s splash
			Stretches…
How does one reciprocate?
“I love you too”   —		“sort of”?
No	—		I
Don’t.				Not sort of —
But hers   —		not fully there.
And mine?			Probably not.
I only love her writing  —
So far…		She
Only loves mine.  		Yes,
My writing 	IS    me, but
Not ALL of me.       		It
Doesn’t show             	habits   —
The spoken word.     		It is
Only a piece.  		I
Want to know more
			I turn the final corner — the uphill
			Stream to home
			Shadows gone with
			The sun, lost 
			With thought…
But the written word, 		it
Won’t show me		how   —
	She walks. 

©1991 Andy Swanson

And then she appeared. M a g i c. Deep in the night. Perhaps midnight. No notice. She was just there. And afterwards I wrote this.

(Part II) she's not here yet
Burden — my eyes
Drag
Down the window.
I stare,
Empty as the space between the glass,
And see with my mind
		She walks — down the street
		The middle.
		The edges of the street curl upward.
		She is the moon
		And they are the tide
And see
		Her body covered in black,
		Clothes.    Her skinny body
		Taken away by the black,
		She is a twig
		A stick bug.
		Crawling carefully down the center of the road.
I try to look.
		Up to see her face.
		It is hidden in deep shadow
		Dark as black ice
		Reflecting no light
		I squint to see…
		More shadow
Burden — my eyes
Drag
Down the window
Everyday — passing
Until the window 		shatters.       there she is!
	She speaks
	“come with me —, 
	for a walk” — she says.
		So we step out onto
		The veins of the city.
		I don’t see the gray rush by.
		The darkness hides the shadows —
		But they splash —  We walk
		To their irreverent echo.
I watch		Big steps
She takes		sets them down softly
And she moves	quickly
With purpose.
	My heart flits around her
	And muscles loose —
I look to her face
The mystery, I’ve never seen.
		She turns her head		in shyness.
		Hiding 	—	her face
		From the full moon.
		She stops	—	miles away,
	“Will you hold my hand?”
——————
Thoughts flood,
The boiling emotions
Want to run		all around,
Surround her,
Collapse in on her.
		But my body won’t move.
Collapse outward.	
		The walk resumes	—	slow.
		The curve in the veins
		Pushes us together, 	our shoulders touch
		Bounce.  	My body vibrates	a wave
		To the rock of her body.	We touch again
		And hold on.		Fingers,
		Snakes that mold together.
I am calm.	
		We drift
		Turning the final corner — the downhill 
		Stream to home
		Fights the rising sun —
		Her face glows, 	full
	And her spoken word			echoes softly.  

©1991 Andy Swanson

And then, a few months later, she was gone again. But still, when I do think of her, I don’t think of the poems above. I think of this one I wrote for her before she appeared at my doorstep. It feels appropriate considering the news of today.

Leroy

Every little kid escaped
Except Leroy Kyle Ellison,
Early last Kentucky evening.

Every little kid … shouting,
“We are the fighters! The rebels!
We will fling our boots away!
And cast our true footprints!”
… except Leroy Kyle Ellison,
Tightening his laces.

Elusive longing, karmic energy
Held in the drenching haze, gray and heavy
Under the naked sky.
Marching in isolated lines we follow
The dogs, the men, north.
Only repetition.
Damn and our boots we throw aside
To kiss the heaven.  Damn
On our naked toes stand and push the soil down,
Little holes for the muck to puddle.   Damn
That blue sky to rain on us.
So swim away, humid air to stick us down,
To bring us back. Damn
The night for making us clammy brrrrr cold.
Damn on our bare feet and walk south,
The heat’ll keep us warm.
Early last Kentucky evening
Every little kid escaped.

The dogs, the men shouting, barking
Swimming through the storm,
Nostrils coated with water, no scent
To follow, no footsteps only puddles.
The muck floods boots,
Freezes feet
That want to lead the way,
Northward.

Every little kid escaped
Except Leroy Kyle Ellison.
Damn in his heavy boots stands
Then marches, north.
The dogs, the men, follow. 

©1991

 Andy Swanson

I hope you enjoyed them. Hug someone. Maybe they need it more than you.