To love a woman is
to resurrect her from stone,
to fondle her from head to toe
until her blood, frozen by curse
is warmed by a dream.
To love a woman is
to turn her soot-laden day
into a skylark that breathes
the flower-dust of paradise;
to turn oneself into a tree in bloom
for her tired wings to roost at night.
To love a woman is
to set sail on a stormy sea
under a cloudy sky
in search of a new continent;
to carry a red balsam
from your courtyard to an unseen shore
and plant it there.
To love a woman is
to exchange the harshness of your muscles
for the tenderness of a flower.
to free yourself of the armour and the crown,
bare, cross another sky
and leave your flesh to the winds of
another planet, to another water.
To love a woman is
to help her unearth a ray-sharp sword
from her ancient scars
and lie pressing your heart on its blade
until you are drained of all your blood.
I have never loved a woman.
THE PANTHER IN THE CITY
The panther strayed into the city
vainly hides behind the leafless
electric posts.
Thirsty, she confronts
the streams of crowds.
She is too wild still
to be whipped into squatting
on a circus chair
to stare at visitors
from a cage in a zoo
or to hang meekly as a meatless skin
from drawing-room walls.
The city’s busy, bright midnights
scare her; breeze and birds
bring silent tears into her eyes.
A moon rises in the lake of her
tears, a bird bathes in it
and a woman sees her own image.
