Dedication
Your eyes are conduits
To the brimming wells of youth
Your eyes are pools sublime in depth,
Their draw outstripping gravity
For my all-time immersion.
They are the truth, you are the truth
My whole soul must embrace.
In your presence
Volcanoes hold their fire,
Your serene smile
Accommodating and outspanning
The spheres of passion’s gamut
David Russell
I am truly honoured to present this collection, which covers several decades of Joy’s poetic activity. Such variety, such sensitivity – a feast for the eyes and ears! I continue with my struggle for her talent to gain the major recognition it so indisputably deserves.
Twilight
Twilight, shadows dipped behind the lips,
Sweet succour to the night,
Stars bright in spangled glory – such a drift!
Heartfelt, high Endymion did raise his hand
In clasped salutation.
Twilight, heavy as eyes half-shuttered,
The closing lashes that veiling sweep
The Iris piece of vision:
Sweet temptation in the touch of moss rose
Grown tender, to a lover’s lone lament.
Twilight, shaken as a breeze
Where silver birches cast high,
Held crown to Diane – moon orb,
Those cheeks of laughter
Thrown out in joyous expectation,
A smile! Oh! A smile – such bliss!
Twilight shivers in the arms
Of night’s delicious expectancies –
Shakes a bell heavy with the hedgings
Of unbridled desire – shakes vibrant,
A three-quarters defined face,
Waits and ponders, and is all but swoonful
By the borders.
Twilight, and in her wistfulness
The moon betokens milk-eyed visions,
The remote, opiated memory –
Hyperion’s sun-blossomed dreams,
Twilight, and in his hands
The face emerges which she loves so dear!
The silence meets, melts, glows
With that Oh! Too Perfect, Oh! Too Tender
Reciprocating sigh of evocation’s surrender.
17th September 1985
Hands
Into love that catapulting emotion,
Recalling the swallow high dive and about –
As though with arms outstretched
I soar into ethers rare, above a mountain top –
Not knowing how to stop:
This reeling in eddies has me feeling
That, and which, I should not.
Into love, that feather-downed memory
Which – myself?
Is this, then, a full-fledged realisation?
This past elation, this memory which serves me
To that bright eye, to that bright lip,
To that bright passion – you are not my desire:
It is more, what I perceive
Which would have of me in love.
Into love, once that sensation acts upon passing –
Tongue and flame: your words echo,
Resound in me – like the wave lipped to the seas
Of sunken pleasures.
These measures reflect how little I know,
Who cannot command – yet, honesty from myself.
Into love, it has been said ‘best avoided’:
These skirmishes are for seasoned veterans;
ach battle leaves the scars
For victor and for vanquished.
Into your arms, which could hold me
Fathomed to your loins,
Which would usher into me
The devourous fragrance of yourself
Unto myself.
Into love, those peaks are hidden from view,
But they are there: and the chasms of yearnings
Deep hidden too: these stars offer
Both fire and flood – Ah! Into love, into love . . .
25th September 1985
Joy Sheridan