Your hands once mapped my skin like a cartographer, each touch discovering a new coastline, each fingertip annotating a geography of desire. In every atlas, oceans separate continents, but we built bridges out of sighs, only to watch them crumble like myths too heavy to bear. Now, love is not a country; it is exile. Yet even in this banishment, i seek your face among the aching landscapes, across inlets frozen in time, in the ruined cathedrals of hunger and dreams.
Thank you, Martin. When I was a child, I used to marvel at the kinds of atlases housed in our local library. I remember one atlas that featured only the state of Wisconsin with a map of each county and illustrations of prominent homes and buildings in different parts of the state. It was printed in the early years of the 20th Century, before WWI, and the homes were all Victorian types of architecture.
That's a good memory to have - especially for a poet who constantly wonders about the way each part works in itself, and then how it all adds up to a bigger picture.
I read this and thought of atlases gathering dust on library shelves, and how every exile secretly keeps a map folded in the lining of their coat, just in case the country opens its arms again.
Geographic contours still sweep with waves on shores to make new sculptures of land . Exile is a fan on a tropical isle. A freezer in cold regions. Yet the mountains form peaks and valleys and are named after those we love and miss.
once mapped my skin". This one hit me very powerfully Paul. I think touch, human touch, is a wonderful way to express love and desire, also acceptance and empathy. It begins when we are born, with the mother- child touch. And I think this poem is a kind of touch in our souls. Thank you
Thanks for sharing this, @Sara Maria.G.
Loss always seems to be a bit sad, Kathleen
Thank you for sharing this, @Diane’s Blue Forum
Grateful to Lady G for sharing this, thank you @Geraldine A. V. Hughes !
Thanks to @Teresa Gonzales for the restack
That last verse is stunning. Great work, Paul.
Thank you, Martin. When I was a child, I used to marvel at the kinds of atlases housed in our local library. I remember one atlas that featured only the state of Wisconsin with a map of each county and illustrations of prominent homes and buildings in different parts of the state. It was printed in the early years of the 20th Century, before WWI, and the homes were all Victorian types of architecture.
That's a good memory to have - especially for a poet who constantly wonders about the way each part works in itself, and then how it all adds up to a bigger picture.
Thanks, @Kathleen Hobbs, I appreciate the restack!
You're welcome, Paul
Thanks to @Lique for sharing this.
Thanks to @Bliss Grey for the restack
Thanks to @Alison Redford for sharing this.
You’re so welcome-it’s outstanding!
Thanks to @Tonianne Baca-Green for restacking this
Thanks for the restack, @Patricia Andrews (WA)
I read this and thought of atlases gathering dust on library shelves, and how every exile secretly keeps a map folded in the lining of their coat, just in case the country opens its arms again.
Thanks for that comment, Gloria!
Because we dare hope, yes?
Yes!
Geographic contours still sweep with waves on shores to make new sculptures of land . Exile is a fan on a tropical isle. A freezer in cold regions. Yet the mountains form peaks and valleys and are named after those we love and miss.
Read me as if you were blind and I were braille.
The fingers touch tips to see the shape of images.
Some of us are well versed in the geography of love. Magnificent poem Paul. 🩵🩵
Thank you, Grace 🩵🩵
"Your hands
once mapped my skin". This one hit me very powerfully Paul. I think touch, human touch, is a wonderful way to express love and desire, also acceptance and empathy. It begins when we are born, with the mother- child touch. And I think this poem is a kind of touch in our souls. Thank you
Thank you, Rolando
A map of and about love.
Love and it’s loss, Stan.