Mr. Beck's wonderful 'siren' poem today remeinded me of what a memorable theme it is, how often in my life I have been seduced by seduction itself.


Circe's Silence

"Now, the Sirens have a still more fatal weapon
than their song, namely their silence."
Franz Kafka, Parables


We were twelve that summer by the lake,
A clear night as deep above as below
My little boat and my dream of her
Calling to me from her own dream
In her cottage on the opposite shore:
Nancy . . . her sun-blonde hair and
Her new breasts, how they would be
Soft and white as moonlight on water,
How as I dipped my oar she would sigh,
Ripples of passion where I touched her,
And with each stroke she would open
And close around me, taking me in,
Moving under me and with me
As though she were my reflection.
As though we had done this before,
The ebb and flow of familiar desire,
Pulling me deeper, farther and closer
Into the musky mossy scent of her,
Drowning in each other's arms.
And how, and all these years later,
I still hear the song of her silence.





Poetry by countryfog
Read 417 times
Written on 2010-12-02 at 15:56

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
I always read your poems at least twice. The first time, I run through them to find out what you're describing. The second time, I take care to catch the flow. I jump in and let the poem take me, and, with this one, as with the others, I greatly enjoy the trip.
2010-12-04


John Ashleigh The PoetBay support member heart!
I've probably said this to you before - but you're the master of imagery. Absolutely brilliant read. Thanks for sharing.

Regards,
John.
2010-12-02