For Your Eyes Only


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


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