My Lover & I

By Maria Morisot

This is a compilation of several books. A book of poems about love, desire, longing, passion; pain and heartache. Written during a manic episode and capturing some of the sentiments of falling fast and hard in love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Maria Morisot
• Release date: Jun 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311184467

Maria Morisot

Maria Morisot has been writing poetry since the late 1990’s and has self-published over 150 chapbooks of her own poetry since the year 2012 when she published her first book of poetry, Please Don’t Touch. She works also as a visual artist under the name Moan Lisa, and has been creating controversy and a stir with art since 2011 when she first took up a brush.

Book preview

My Lover & I

Maria Morisot

Published by Moan Lisa Press at Smashwords

Copyright © 2014 Maria Morisot

Eventide

The dull ache of a body worn,

Past the compass of entertainment’s score;

And I believe her calling is for me,

Too much time spent isolating fragments of some erratic whole

Thinking I may reuse these here or there as grace and eloquence permit,

What style,

And what substance,

The chains are broken and her tongue is loose;

What verse shall she sing next,

To accompany my song?

The fluidity of our reception

Spans the night sky without peculiarities;

The dreamer with her eyes closed

Sees the vacancy of breath in me,

And blooms the Sunday night recitation.

How much shame would come from falling in love?

Splintered speech from the mouth of my oppressor;

Deliver me, and make room for me among the wasps,

That I may shatter glass, and reconnect the fragments of my heart;

And two become one persona;

Living in the dark pages of my self-reflective work,

I see more than I care to in the mirror;

If only I had a mirror,

Who could bare witness to my soul,

And ease the suffering eternal;

Not disrupt the heart’s condition,

And leave me wanting and waiting.

Will this feeling of being thrown ever end,

And the weightlessness receive me in her womb,

Bury me deeply, lodging my breast within her walls

I am ready, I lie to myself.

This voice,

No one but I can hear,

Sometimes raging through my ears;

But mostly calm and quiet like whispers

Echoed in the dark.

And her pool is soft and silent,

Where we could dip our extremities,

Feast upon the moonlit mass

And plunge;

There is no bottom to this lake of death

From which she takes her breath;

Something’s missing, but I cannot put my finger

On this evasive lack of substance I have longed for,

Curiosity calls; and the instruction set that follows,

I need to breathe, I need everything as it was

Before eavesdropping had its flavours wrapped

About my tongue;

And desire painted the world red,

Subduing any sign of conscious thought.

It’s easy to break habits and change direction;

But my feet always lend themselves to a gravity of course

How much I would love to distract myself in the voice

Of unconscious ecstasy; to lose myself in her hypnotic beauty;

And close my eyes, and relax into the threads of infancy;

To project into my mother’s womb

And lay, quieted by the beating of our hearts.

Voices speaking truths I do not want to hear,

And in the escalation of my regrets; I choke on

My own words;

And in a violent outburst,

I reach through our conversation and grip

To it.

Textures of words unspoken

Streaming through the screen;

Our fault, and my recitation.

The culmination of years’ work,

Divulged in raw form,

Without boundaries and without care for punctuation.

I dress myself for the weather,

And make my home the one place I can escape.

How I am pricked by the stinging needles,

And cast into a pool of acid; how it burns.

But I cannot deny this existential odyssey

Wrapped in ribbons, as some strange bed

Of mischief where I am tucked away.

Who could close the fists of fate,

As they batter and bludgeon; who can twist

Tomorrow in their bare hands?

My silent screaming is all I can hear,

The outside world is a void and a harlequin

Illogical manifestation of my own design.

The steady state between ourselves,

Brings the abysmal silence of the night,

And I would fall for fluid love in a turquoise cup.

In my sanctuary,

Beneath the melting snow,

My solitude, my home;

Here the storm can not touch me,

Here, the winds do not blow;

And everything is peaceful and calm.

I will squeeze my bit of fruit,

Until it has run dry,

And even then, to the very last drop.

This liquid ignites my passion and preserves my goals;

Sleep becomes a fascination,

And dreams a window to escape;

Fear, in the commonly misdirected sense, sears.

Each angle of this new construction of the sun;

The earth, and mars, an inadequate sum.

It is her words that play like children on my tongue;

And the threat of losing her –

Which makes me cling more closely to these fetal steps.

Pinch pot; fired in the kiln,

A reservoir of saline, and a smile.

How much this ring had weight,

For an hour and a day.

[Ten years in all]

The fuss it’s caused, and the suicidal reflection,

Each part the whole of its own infraction;

Do we specialize in milk,

Sweet honey for the tongue;

And mother’s breasts–

We know our own reflection,

But I cannot receive mine;

I am hideous, hideous; hideous.

Throw the anchor overboard;

Stop the pain and suffering,

Deny me my life,

And give me tomorrow’s earth

With cleaner water,

And a smile in my reflection.

Breaking the silent still,

Reducing the