Thursday, April 29, 2010

Lynne Savitt

Layers of meaning and feeling by a writer who makes it look easy. Images iridescent as seahorses sometimes found among the smells and clumps of ancient seaweeds washed up on beaches after a storm.





Long Island Soundings . . .








Lynne Savitt





NEW YEAR’S, 2010


you disappeared off the map
of the electronic world
off the face of the topographic earth
off the postal grid
& then you are HERE all
i can remember is yr grip on
my upper arm pulling me
so sharply my neck jerked
silver chains flew & caught on
yr blue sweater a tangle of sky
STARS & then you were gone


if i lean against the dirty car
while snow falls lightly on yr
red plaid scarf & yr right ARM
engulfs me in a way i remember
from warm summer nights when i
could drown in the smell of yr musk
will it be different this time will i
be safe from spinning out of control
TONIGHT all my kids & grandkids are
somewhere in vermont skiing frost
on windshields logs crackling fire


places i should be right now i can
see your BREATH a swirl of white cotton
candy i move in for the rush of sugar
& lips i barely remember how to kiss
yr mouth wet as dreams got me through
so many years & here we are this evening
you pressed up against my ungloved
HANDS under your jacket this was the
year i was going to grow up give up
fantasy DWELL in home of grandma
solid & dependable as a range rover


memory is more than a FLOOD tonight
more than mardi gras beads & hurricane
hangovers in humid alleys of deceit
exists here on the island under this sweet
fake fur & the smell of dampened DESIRE
wicked winds rock the car & my reserve
for nightly news no lost children dead
soldiers HUNGRY families a city of jobless
a chance for better times far from ice
castles & slopes of eternal LONGING




BLONDE BACKLIT BY THE BROOKLYN BRIDGE

at 7:03 saturday morning
yr wife called to tell me
you’re dying to see me
unfinished business
haven’t spoken in six
teen years ago you stole
my heart forgot yr voice
once made me crumble
like bleu cheese yr smell
captured me like a pirate
i couldn’t escape my husband
yr wife called to tell me
you’re dying to see me cry
at the sight of you hooked
up to intravenous tubes yr
eyes half closed you whisper
“blonde i can’t forget you
backlit by the brooklyn bridge’’
i take yr hand & yr fingers grasp
mine the way an infant does
instinctively i want to tell you
it wasn’t me by the bridge but
you smile teeth missing trouble
breathing say again, ‘’blonde
i’ll never forget,’’ oh how i
adored you broke my heart
remembers who do you have
me confused with my name
say it i say in my head but not
out loud living & you are going
quietly yr wife enters the room
tells me you’re tired unfinished
business remains i hear you
mutter ‘’backlit blonde’’ as i
leave sunday night 11:14 yr
wife calls, ‘’he’s dead, ‘’ she says
it’s finished but now not for me
on my last afternoon of breathing
i will remember you glistening on
yr norton atlas teeth white
as supermodel chicklets
forearms like a popeye cartoon
you are backlit in bayville
it was you, wasn’t it?
i will say yr name
























ABOUT BEING OLD IN LOVE


relics of lust banging boots on paper
kisses deep as sweet pecan pie crust
3 fingers rough hand under silk red panties
cock hard against zipper of dark denim jeans
five short raspy breaths of mounting excitement
breasts soft & full pressed against the fur of his chest
rustle of crisp white sheets & thump as they hit mattress
eight minutes finding the exact spot to hit deep home
sound of his moan & her screech & their endings
the paper is wet & her high heels are under the bed
relics of lust banging boots on paper




SACK OF MY UNFORGETTABLE


brown paper bag of my mind
got wet carrying groceries
bouquet of carrots & one broken
egg on concrete along with clock
ticking louder than car tires over
railroad tracks the between mid
night & dawn hours my grand
daughters were born more than
a decade apart you sitting on
wooden railing with coffee mug
a single boat passes by & breaks
the glass of the blue-gray canal out
side my bedroom sliding doors you
looking out at sunset from mountain
top restaurant near taos bleeding
pinks & purples my son’s voice
from cell phone walking from fallen
towers to upper west side 9/11
my father unable to speak no
thing but pain full moans coming
from his mouth frozen like
empty life preserver that boy
i worked with at bookstore
kisses made me dizzy
sound of him unbuckling
the belt of his faded bell bottom
jeans one night in new orleans
big al singing sweating blues at
the pirates cove my grandson’s
first words ‘’read a book, read a book’’
most electrical passion points
short circuited until they all
are one memory i want to keep
leaking from the wet paper sack
of my mind forgetful hold on what
is lost forever like my dear friend
james, at 83, who e-mails each night
from his manhattan apartment on
on east 54th with a list of what
he’s forgotten






VIEW FROM THE CHEAP SEATS


baby, i’ve got my flowered
scarf colored like o’keefe’s
desert folds of pinks & browns
& purples i can smell you coming
down to me longing rears her
lovely hands decorated with
many rings of coral & turquoise


read to me i’m a pushover for
cowboy songs & rough palms
smell of cigarettes & booze
hazy memories of out of control
high school boys will be boys
but you’re a man i’m told by


other women who’ve tasted
the alcohol love of your lines
knock me back to the cheap
seats gimme a cold beer & hot
dog ain’t it grand this infatuation
move closer smell my hair stars

live there, you know, twinkling
morse code asking you to rub
yr beard on my neck move yr
hand under my skirt oh, fingers
of poetry make me moan breath
caught in my throat closing


to open to you & the view
from the cheap seats
where we can touch the
black night skies lost
aromas of youthful lust
dancing to forget





LOVE POEM FOR A.M.

a deck of greeting cards
happy new job love retirement
get well married engaged
divorced welcome baby
encouragement miss you
sexy invitation what’s up

pastel easter egg colored
envelopes addressed with
pens & tears & crayon &
blood pump’s history clown
who rocked your heart

limps off in the purple sun
set with a spaghetti strapped
girl with dollops of hair
& not a care in the world
ah, to be young & stupid


moldable under the thumb
of starry eyed kisses &
slobber of past romances &
comic book dreams every
man’s fantasy paper doll
who doesn’t dissolve under
his sweaty fingers & tongue


this is empty pillow broken
records little mindpacked
suitcases stacked by the
proverbial door how the fuck
do they do it break yr heart
from a thousand miles away


& as you take a tray of warm
baked goods from the oven
you wish them well let the cookies
cool wrap them in pink cellophane
send them off with a note


we all know what you’ll say &
what you’ll WANT to say
you’ve always been a lady
in love & literature




LOVE SONG ON THE WAY TO THE AIRPORT


i love you as much as a good
night’s sleep or a small bag
of chocolate kisses i keep under
my pillow in dark winter dreams
this is not a betrayal boarding
the plane this morning buckling
up to a man nearly the same age
as my son almost forty years
i’ve known & loved you many
bleached by white heat
of faded memories like the
photos on the window
sill of my mother’s unsold
apartment vacant almost two
years now it sits as i do in
your eyes invisible & there
my darling lies the problem
women & men & aging grace
fully i know the chance taken
by wearing red high heels
black lingerie & boarding a plane
but you will not travel with me
you are afraid to fly, my love,
in so many ways i cannot stay
grounded to the house full
of grandkids & books & charm
i love you like climbing into cold
sheets after a summer’s blistering
orange coiled day like my favorite
silver rings engraved with rilke
but i am invisible & 62 & do not
look it yet so drop me curbside
don’t park the car i’ll be back
in 12 days glowing with visibility
& hope you will conquer your
fear of flying how sweet if we
could be bold strokes of lime
green against the sky & see
what’s left of this world, this
life together




THE LAST COLD LOVE NIGHT IN A BLUE CAR


always waiting for the other shoe
to drop on her knees to hear zipper
pulled open legs last time she’ll feel
nerve dance prize of her body’s pleasure
is NOT the doctor said abnormal results


& the tests begin & the waiting like all
her friends & lovers waiting like florida’s
population all the condos & ambulances
waiting like all the children & grandchildren
for the ceremony that ends it long after the
dying begins & the living dead enjoy moments


his hand in her maybe the last time she’ll
ever feel the injection of dye warm as his
wet joy filled with dread & nausea clinking
sound of cat scans & rustling of insurance
forms her days back at work no doctors call


text from the blue car owner says call me
she doesn’t sleep mass in her growing no
news from the medical group what to do
but wait weekend’s here & now 3 more days
a rain storm holds her hostage she crawls


into bed the rain beats the roof like
a drunken lover just out of prison


◈◈◈◈◈◈◈

















◈◈◈◈◈◈




On Being Asked For Biographical Information

i am terrified of biographies,
the factual black and white
printed credibilities

the date the cloud was filled with lemon snowflakes

the hour my father exploded my birth from a tennis ball

the job at the orphanage giving oatmeal
kisses to homeless midwest cheeks

thumbprints from my offspring my husbands
picture of my sister looking just like daddy
distributing dollars with a miser’s heart
xerox copies of my mother’s bridal dinner,
hysterectomy, charity luncheon
lists of the religious persuasions and vegetable
preferences of all my lovers

there are new methods to categorize
fears, health habits, insecurities
all recorded on asbestos uniforms
worn by airline stewards on international flights

“born in Australia in the emerald studded
pouch of a sable coated kangaroo
my right eye is a perfect star sapphire”

i am in favor of myths.

(Pudding House Publications 2004)


◈◈◈◈◈◈◈◈◈◈◈◈






















 cover art by noelle crough



Lynne Savitt has 11 books of poetry published.

Lust In 28 Flavors. Second Coming Press 1979
Eros Unbound. Blue Horse Publications 1980
No Apologies. Cardinal Press 1981
Plump Passions. Ancient Mariners Press 1988
Dreams As Erect As Nipples On Ice. Ghost Dance 1989
Sleeping Retrospect Of Desire. Konocti Books 1993
The Burial Of Longing Beneath The Blue Neon Moon. Ye Olde Font Shoppe 1999
The Transport Of Grandma's Yearning Vibrator. Myshkin Press 2002
Greatest Hits 1979-2003. Pudding House Publications 2004
The Deployment Of Love In Pineapple Twilight. Presa :S: Press 2005
Digging Dinosaur Dignity In Ardortown. Myshkin Press 2008






∽∽∽∽∽∽∽∽∽∽∽∽∽∽∽∽

five bullet hit website ... . . http://interzone-news.blogspot.com/

∽∽∽∽∽∽∽


9 comments:

Anonymous said...

WOW, THIS IS GOOD, GOOD GOD, GOOD.

hungry man said...

great stuff and pic's.
a.d. winans

hungry man said...

great poem. great pic's.

a.d. winans

George Wm. Fisher said...

thanks for this post!

all the WORLD should hear - and celebrate - Lynne's unique & powerful voice.

fitzroy_dreamings said...

Louis McKee, in an email to Lynne said:
This is really impressive, Lynne. The guy did you justice, chose very good poems, and photos. The blond backlit, w/ or w/out the bridge, is beautiful, in both kodachrome and words. Any poet would kill for one reader who gets it, appreciates it -- us. And you deserve it -- good for you!

[Lynne picked the poems, I did the images layout. fitzroy_dreamings)

fitzroy_dreamings said...

email to lynne savitt

"Wow! it's gorgeous! Is this what they call online publishing?
Lynne, they did a wonderful job with photos and poems
and a lot of the poems are familiar and there is the one you
wrote for me; all in all, an incredible treat to open up
and find and I shall be deliciously reading it again and again.
. . .
Your poetry is like two dancers who make up steps as they
go along and an audience who believes that each step, quick
or slow, is planned, because it all works perfectly!

I love this! . . ." annie [menebroker]

Anonymous said...

This lady is scorching hot. The words & photos are like a snake crawling up my leg & I'm trying to dance it down to stomp on.


Catfish

fitzroy_dreamings said...

NEW YEAR’S, 2010
six bullet hit ... ...
beautiful. karlos

Isabelle Aubert-Baudron said...

Thanks for this page about Richard Krech. Beautiful illustrations from the travel notebook !
And thanks for the link and comment on Interzone news !