Procrastination Post
I don’t feel like going to work so I’m procrastinating getting ready. 
Anyway, last night got a little less than halfway through the Christmas Story and have gotten it down to 12690 words so far. That feels good. Loading up my bookbag with reading material and saving the transcribing for when I’m at home, rather than trying to do it at work. But the editing, I’m still going to try to do at work.
And now, I’m going to actually make a move to go to work.
I’m toying with the idea of using Lulu to put out a book of my poems sometime next year, since I think that’s one of the only ways I’ll ever get my poetry published at all. For about $100 or so I could get a regular ISBN and distribution on places like Amazon. What about you out there in Cyber Ether Land? Would you ever consider using a POD (Print on Demand) publisher? If so, in what case? If not, why not?
Farewell Poetry Month
Whilst living in San Francisco I volunteered for the National Poetry Association, doing things like going through poems and deciding which to put in the yearly (or whenever it came out) edition, helping with the verbal poetry section, helping with events, etc. Didn’t do much, but I liked to think I helped forward poetry in our little corner of the world. That’s also where I first discovered Poetry Flash, a poetry newspaper for both Southern and Northern California that discusses poets, poems, readings, reviews, etc.
Poetry is good for the soul. It’s too bad we don’t spend more than a month celebrating it. With such great poets as as Carl Sandburg and Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson and Adrienne Rich as part of our history, as well as many, many, many others, it’s too bad there is not more emphasis put on poetry in this country.
Back when I did volunteer for the NPA, I had my first poem published in a their 1999 publication. In honor of the last day of Poetry Month, here it is - previously published.
Love is. God is. You are. I am.
(subject-verb-predicate)
by
Rachel V. Olivier
So-
Is this it?
These little pockets of
honey-sweetness savored
during dark times.
Remembered.
Are these what we call Love?
But
It’s not just the press of lips-
that transfer of energy-
of rasping tongues, click of teeth
or
the hand cupped for
cheek, neck or breast
that we remember.
It’s the sharp-pang -
tart-sweet -
of Loss.
Nectar offered in a
Crystal Cup-
gone
in a breath of air.
Afterwards.
We relish the memory;
pretty brown, sparkling blue or
serious grey eyes.
Trace the eyes that
like little green pebbles
lay at the bottom of a stream.
When we are alone.
Were we the Sage,
the Seer, the Mystic,
the Wise Woman,
we would grasp
greedily
these gifts of the Soul
anon they were offered -
and feel the loss
the instant we discover
the beauty of the moment.
April is Poetry Month!!!
This is a late start to Poetry Month, sorry to say. I’ve been a bit preoccupied. But, I would like to do what I can in the time left to help bring poetry into the consciousness of everyone. Poems can be found everywhere, from crass limericks to delicate haikus.
Poetry has been a staple of mankind since language was first formed. The first stories were often told in poetic form using analogies, metaphors, similes, rhymes, meter and beat as ways to involve the listeners or readers in the tale. Homer’s Odyssey is an epic poem. Lyrics are a type of poem put to music which often use poetic devices. A thousand years from now someone like Bob Dylan or Kurt Cobain or Paul Simon could be known as another Homer. Who knows?
What are you doing for poetry today?
If you’d like to read some of my poetry, I have some posted at SheVibe. It’s not the most sophisticated, but it is an effort. My effort. What will be your effort? Share your poetry.
The Conversation
Previously published in Arch and Quiver (www.archandquiver.com), 2006.
The Conversation
The pungent smell of you from last night
still lingers in my nose as
the taste of you rolls around my tongue with the morning coffee,
like two lovers on a fleshy bed.
I stare at the computer screen in my sterile office
(blinking cursor a jackhammer on my eyes,
facts and figures stumbling chaotically over each other)
and remember our conversation.
Not the talk.
Not the inelegant two-step, tete-a-tete of meaning:
You step foward.
(Pull of a haunting memory behind your eyes.)
I step back, confused.
(Fear of opening up what needs to be healed.)
Now reverse.
No. Not that conversation.
I mean the tangible dialogue of our bodies.
The sweet palpable small talk,
indulging in a caress here, a touch there.
Wooing each other.
Moving each other to carnal discourse.
Your breath hot on my neck, inhaling my scent.
My fingers exploring your skin, stroking your hair.
Wordless moans that escape our throats.
Our exchange intensifies to the give and take of
flesh, breath, sweat, spit, taste, tears, sound and scent.
Rapid debate of vitality accelerates as we ride a tide of tenderness
that ends with every pore open.
All that needs to be said has just been said
and remains unspoken.
Rachel V. Olivier
11/1/98
21st Century Song of Songs
Previously published in SheVibe, Erotic Ink, shevibe.com, October 2006:
21st Century Song of Songs
My lover calls to me.
Through city streets I wander
feeling his voice
Touch
that sweet spot in my ear.
Tingling in recognition.
A chill runs down my spine -
flutters around -
Deep
inside.
One -
he is just one -
in a city of millions.
Were those his eyes?
The brush on the arm,
the sigh in the ear -
Wait -
Was that him?
I awake -
breasts aching -
reaching out to find -
nothing.
A knock and I run to the door -
fingers dripping with oil.
I anoint myself for his coming.
But he is gone.
Somewhere out there in the city night…
© Rachel V. Olivier, 2005
