Your Eyes That Told Me Yes

By Mort Persky

Before he wrote the words you’re reading, the author looked into his heart at age 84 or so, and realized there was something he hadn’t done, something he powerfully wanted to do, though he had long virtually ignored it. That thing is this book, mostly written years ago, then hidden in a drawer where it easily eluded publication. He had fallen victim to poetry’s rock-strewn path to print, blocking what might be the most satisfying thing in his life. He’d be no challenge, he thought, to Dylan Thomas or Wordsworth, but wasn’t he the only person who could set these words free? Yes, so why not give it a try?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Nov 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781483466958

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Persky

Copyright © 2017 Mort Persky.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-6696-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-6694-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-6695-8 (e)

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Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 08/29/2017

For Sophie Payeff Sindler

My cousin and lifelong source of womanly wisdom

Your Eyes That Told Me Yes

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Cut off from even your sounds,

I drag myself from red wine shores

To a place where your face floods

Across the rocks strewn with sun

And water.

I look out through eyes that see terror and hunger in your eyes that told me Yes.

My God! In the night,

Where I held you,

There are only sheets and pillows now.

Under my hand,

Your valleys and rivers

Have blossomed and vanished like morning glories.

A Dream Wrapped in a Dream

You are a dream wrapped inside a dream,

Hurrying somewhere,

Not gone yet,

And I call out to bring you back

Never imagining you will turn and kneel,

Tears fresh in your eyes, and anguish,

And let me hold you so real and tightly

Inside the glass door, the grass and morning locked out,

Where I feel them, soft breath of April’s dawn and near a lake, with stands of pine and oak, and your face rising into mine;

Rising, rising;

Is this Summerville, South Carolina, or Vidalia, Georgia,

All melting into your tears and vanished,

So that I, riding a bicycle through unknown streets,

Bereft of ecstasy, feel morning’s hand on my shoulder,

Calling me back to day;

As if awakened, I careen through narrow streets, past rows of unknown people,

Knowing, even in sleep, you