Lila Dunlap
Variations on New York
In March, in New York
when the first crocus
blossoms white and striped
and snowdrops possess the sun
sprayed spots on central park
               I mourn
in the library for a lover I might have had,
am reminded of who I don’t
all these faces above the gleaming tables
_____________
Crocuses, remainder of quick breath,
lack of narrative, just
appear one day, and take aim
               before the blocks of ice
amassed huge in the mountains even think
of coming down
               mouth music
                              we make
               motions in the park to signal
that we are ready for one another
               You’ve aimed, you have,
and I’ve put on lotion
                              I’m ready for
your skins as refreshed as Cleopatra’s needle
obelisk taut and massive
erect in the sun after a rain
______________
Vague erection, Cleopatra’s crocuses pierce
needles thru the earth, hard beaks
that don’t want to play,
               most demanding of flowers
tho I do
                              worse than them, you
on the street somewhere in the world and them
                                             right beside me,
who I’ve denied talking about
                              you deny me
now when I feel you most closely, when the wind
enters from some invisible place
               and sweeps the length of the library
Variations on the Troubadours
It’s to themselves that lovers lie
               for a lover’s treasure
is in measure, patience, and July
There,
               not here, thinned out
by the cold and juiceless wind
that blows back and forth
between the mountains and the city
wind that bothers
               not fresco nor lover
in its sorrowful nightly trailing
                                             of the Hudson
I draw from a small place
                              something to pray to,
                                                            someone,
from a small place I call my heart
               and share with no one but the wind
my lovely lines, made and forgotten,
                                             and the face of one I’m
made to sing to
_____________
He who tortures me
               like a hummingbird between my teeth,
flitting and poking the inside of my mouth
               with his scarlet beak
                                             and won’t leave
gestures also as a statue of Hermes
on top of Grand Central Station
               not the god by right, but by
position and precision
_____________
A fool’s love...
               cannot take the name of no god
Misremembered, or dismembered
               members where there shouldn’t be
in the beams
                              that fall from your eyes
               want to have you a child
and then kill it
               and then do it again
to tell you
                              that all i want is you
and not what I might
                              make out of you
on the ocean somewhere
               only your movements,
your muscles, and bones,
               and your skin in the skin that it’s in
rough or soft, I will cut it
                              and place your wound in the ocean
_____________
Delightful, unburdened,
               the way you run into the snowdrifts.
I can’t for the life of me
untangle the lovely spiderwebs
                              you left on my desk
can’t take them into me further
               those illustrious threads,
                                             sun glances,
                                                            sense
or lift them nearer to my skin
               than where you’ve already been
_____________
My land’s not worth two gloves,
               but I am her lover
and happiness comes,
                              when I thought I could never
feel any way but bitter,
               swings her long legs
from my broken chandelier
               and kisses its burnt-out bulbs
snapped fastenings, happiness
comes as a true goddess
                              never named, but known
all over the world to the living
_____________
For a long time I was bitter,
but now I am her lover
or can so imagine being
in his arms, or dense body
knowing
               I can’t be happy
until I return very quickly
                              no right
have I even to avert my eyes
in any serious way
                              if I want to lead the full life
of a lover of the hunter’s arrow
                              and of the hunter
From New Orleans, Lila Dunlap is a graduate of Bard College, where she studied with Robert Kelly. Three collections, The Partitas (‘20), Trysts (‘19), and The Sea Comes Back (‘17) have been published by Lunar Chandelier Collective, and she has published several chapbooks, including The Peacock and the God (The Swan, University of Pennsylvania), The Sciences (The Doris Press), and The Diary of Frederic Church, as well as several collaborative, ekphrastic series, such as Water Color and Tarot Images (both from metambesen.org), from the work of contemporary painters. Her poems have appeared in magazines such as Dispatches from the Poetry Wars, The Doris Magazine, Open Space Magazine, and The Bat. She has also worked in ancient languages and has produced several translations, such as the Hortulus of Walafrid Strabo from medieval Latin. She edits the poetry circular Mint Julep. Currently, she is participating in the Catskill Mountain Foundation’s Writer-in-Residence program in Tannersville, NY.
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Variations on New York
In March, in New York
when the first crocus
blossoms white and striped
and snowdrops possess the sun
sprayed spots on central park
               I mourn
in the library for a lover I might have had,
am reminded of who I don’t
all these faces above the gleaming tables
_____________
Crocuses, remainder of quick breath,
lack of narrative, just
appear one day, and take aim
               before the blocks of ice
amassed huge in the mountains even think
of coming down
               mouth music
                              we make
               motions in the park to signal
that we are ready for one another
               You’ve aimed, you have,
and I’ve put on lotion
                              I’m ready for
your skins as refreshed as Cleopatra’s needle
obelisk taut and massive
erect in the sun after a rain
______________
Vague erection, Cleopatra’s crocuses pierce
needles thru the earth, hard beaks
that don’t want to play,
               most demanding of flowers
tho I do
                              worse than them, you
on the street somewhere in the world and them
                                             right beside me,
who I’ve denied talking about
                              you deny me
now when I feel you most closely, when the wind
enters from some invisible place
               and sweeps the length of the library
Variations on the Troubadours
It’s to themselves that lovers lie
               for a lover’s treasure
is in measure, patience, and July
There,
               not here, thinned out
by the cold and juiceless wind
that blows back and forth
between the mountains and the city
wind that bothers
               not fresco nor lover
in its sorrowful nightly trailing
                                             of the Hudson
I draw from a small place
                              something to pray to,
                                                            someone,
from a small place I call my heart
               and share with no one but the wind
my lovely lines, made and forgotten,
                                             and the face of one I’m
made to sing to
_____________
He who tortures me
               like a hummingbird between my teeth,
flitting and poking the inside of my mouth
               with his scarlet beak
                                             and won’t leave
gestures also as a statue of Hermes
on top of Grand Central Station
               not the god by right, but by
position and precision
_____________
A fool’s love...
               cannot take the name of no god
Misremembered, or dismembered
               members where there shouldn’t be
in the beams
                              that fall from your eyes
               want to have you a child
and then kill it
               and then do it again
to tell you
                              that all i want is you
and not what I might
                              make out of you
on the ocean somewhere
               only your movements,
your muscles, and bones,
               and your skin in the skin that it’s in
rough or soft, I will cut it
                              and place your wound in the ocean
_____________
Delightful, unburdened,
               the way you run into the snowdrifts.
I can’t for the life of me
untangle the lovely spiderwebs
                              you left on my desk
can’t take them into me further
               those illustrious threads,
                                             sun glances,
                                                            sense
or lift them nearer to my skin
               than where you’ve already been
_____________
My land’s not worth two gloves,
               but I am her lover
and happiness comes,
                              when I thought I could never
feel any way but bitter,
               swings her long legs
from my broken chandelier
               and kisses its burnt-out bulbs
snapped fastenings, happiness
comes as a true goddess
                              never named, but known
all over the world to the living
_____________
For a long time I was bitter,
but now I am her lover
or can so imagine being
in his arms, or dense body
knowing
               I can’t be happy
until I return very quickly
                              no right
have I even to avert my eyes
in any serious way
                              if I want to lead the full life
of a lover of the hunter’s arrow
                              and of the hunter
From New Orleans, Lila Dunlap is a graduate of Bard College, where she studied with Robert Kelly. Three collections, The Partitas (‘20), Trysts (‘19), and The Sea Comes Back (‘17) have been published by Lunar Chandelier Collective, and she has published several chapbooks, including The Peacock and the God (The Swan, University of Pennsylvania), The Sciences (The Doris Press), and The Diary of Frederic Church, as well as several collaborative, ekphrastic series, such as Water Color and Tarot Images (both from metambesen.org), from the work of contemporary painters. Her poems have appeared in magazines such as Dispatches from the Poetry Wars, The Doris Magazine, Open Space Magazine, and The Bat. She has also worked in ancient languages and has produced several translations, such as the Hortulus of Walafrid Strabo from medieval Latin. She edits the poetry circular Mint Julep. Currently, she is participating in the Catskill Mountain Foundation’s Writer-in-Residence program in Tannersville, NY.