The Orgasm of Poetry

Or is it the poetry of orgasm?

Georgia O’Keeffe, Red Hill and White Shell, 1938

Writing a poem
is a lot like coming.
A shift in awareness,
the muse knocking,
you noticing,
oh, yes, 
here I am.
What is this bliss
I’m writ(h)ing with?

Attention tethered to a 
curiously wandering body.
Knowing, viscerally. 
there’s nowhere as close
to touching everything
as here,
this moment.
So you stay,
riding the wave of 
bewildering sensation.
Surrendering tension 
in your forehead 
to wild-eyed
investigation. 

Breathing,
swelling,
a culmination looming.
Or is it?
What if you were to 
linger on the edge
for one eternal breath
dripping down through
rippling ribs
to the parts
where hunger lives.
Into the belly 
of the beast
Lying in wait.

Ravenous.
Praying,
Patient.

Hi, I’m Faye and I share my philosophy and practice of movement in its infinite forms as a pathway to personal empowerment.

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