These poems, all written recently (I am publishing these to my Web site on July 4, 2002), touch upon the speaker's reaction to women, so it is natural that they (the poems) should be dedicated to them (the women). The first two are a bit playful, but in a hearfelt way. The third is, well, not sentimental, but full of sentiment. There is a difference, you know.
Three Poems: Dedicated to Women Everywhere
Steven C. Scheer
In a Dream
In a dream - I think it was a dream,
Though it may have actually happened -
I saw you naked, from the waist down,
And when you turned around, your buttocks
Glistened in the headlight of a car in the
Background passing somewhere unaware
Of us. I know not where we were (or why),
All I know is that in the fleeting second,
While the light shone on your backside,
I smiled at the absurdity of life,
The way things do or do not work out,
The average person's anguish in light
Of all failure (or success, for that matter),
When what really matters is never what is.
When you turned again, you were fully
Clothed. And I stopped smiling my foolish
Smile. In the dream - it was a dream, right?
I suddenly knew things I didn't know I knew,
Like why the curvature of the female form -
Those rotundities that glisten in the headlight,
For instance - why those rotundities always
Strike me as incredibly desirable.
The anatomy lesson they teach in school
Has nothing on reality. It is always in the
Dark - when we dream, perhaps - that we,
That is, you and I, try to sleep things off.
Ain't it a Shame?
I always fall in love unexpectedly.
The woman is always other, yet the same.
It is uncanny how canny she is at
Plying her trade. The petals of the rose
Open slowly. It's photosynthesis, they say.
And I buy whatever it is that they say.
Like a dozen of them, to be precise.
The card says: "Roses are red." Oh boy.
Did you see how Newland Archer
Conceals his identity when he sends
Those yellow roses to Madame Olenska?
And how, in the snowy countryside,
He assumes (like men do) the wrong thing?
"Thus do men blunder," says George Eliot
Of Adam Bede. Indeed. We blunder
And stumble and fumble, falling all over
Ourselves, just because a woman smiles
At us wryly and knowingly, too, knowing
All along that she is in control. We only imagine
That we matter. Man proposes, woman disposes.
Ain't it a dirty shame?
The Seasons for Love
Something in the shadows dies suddenly,
Like my apprehension of tomorrow,
But as the landscape whirs by on the highway,
And the hum of the car's engine distracts me,
There is that turn in the muss of my mood when
I suddenly see myself in love for the first time,
Before the loss of innocence and the chance
To ruin paradise forever in a purple dawn.
I can hardly believe it any more, but there was
A time (before time was) when all was clear,
When spring sprang eternal and summer's heat
Shimmered in the twilight of the day,
And the precursor of autumn's sorrow
Didn't come till the whiteness of winter's
First snow covered all in the light of the fragile moon.
And it was then that I knew without fail that
The seasons for love number more than four.
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