How Things Were; How Things Are

By T.R. Melton

HOW THINGS WERE; HOW THINGS ARE contains poems,
notes and musings about personal histories, relationships,
allegory, certain geographies and social commentaries.
The words recount times from the nineteen-forties to the present.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479717996

T.R. Melton

Terry Melton is a painter, printmaker and writer. He has work in seven museum collections and has shown in more than fifty exhibitions. He was Director of the Yellowstone Art Museum, the C.M. Russell Museum and the McAllen International Museum. He was also Executive Director of the Oregon Arts Commission, the Western States Arts Federation and has Regional Representative for the National Endowment for the Arts. He has had occasional poetry published and has written essays for numerous exhibition catalogs.

Book preview

Leda And The Swan /

Letters From Jupiter

The finiteness of the earth seems to be as great as the infinity of the cosmos. Interpretation against fact makes it so. I had not realized all that I made, and am somewhat amazed I found you. We might have missed one-another you know. Perhaps it was the challenge of chance that made me see you . . . and you, me. Maybe it was your smile, my white hair all covered with feathers. Had I attempted to control all that I usually do, we might have missed. We did not. Chance has a certain power.

That thunderstorm was mine. Do you remember it? The bolts of lightning were driven by clouds accompanied by the winds of my whim. Do you recall the force at which they came? We chilled and warmed with the potency of our meeting. At a great distance from the sea we smelled the salt of the water, heard birds hunkering down along with sailboats against the moorage. All windblown creatures might have imagined they steered their own directions. We knew it was our embrace and gave them a bit more than they gave us.

Do you recall our early touches? The wetness beneath your arms played against the dryness of my mouth. I arranged that meeting; you were kind to show up. I think we each plotted our next time together. We had our own schedules, of course. We pretended them important and because of that, may have insinuated our first lies. Self-importance always has a potential for difficulty. But, perhaps it was not that at all, merely two sorts of power face to face.

You recognized me even as the swan. I had thought the grace of that assumed form might cause you less alarm. But you saw right through it all; I should have known. The high desert meeting was extraordinary. The sinecure was set. The compensation was unique to my history and I hoped it might be for yours. I caused our embraces to be unusually ours. Orders were left not to disturb us. God sank into your eyes and gasped for breath.

Our days and nights together have taken on the endurance of centuries. I mentioned us to Bacchus and even he showed a slight blush. I will not relate some things to him again . . . even with the sweet tastes in my mouth. He did ask the way to you. I told him you were to the east and beyond Saturn. He is probably pressing new grapes now anyway. But if you should see him, tell him you will not drink.

Achilles died today at the hand of Paris. The River Styx protected all but his heel. Those same waters have caused my invulnerability except for the cord wrapped around my heart. Do not tell and do not unwrap it for it will surely kill me.

In the mornings when we are together I watch you at your toilette. As you sit before the mirror, you approach your face like a painter confronting a panel. You play with the cleansers, powders and shadows and I do not disagree with what you do. But I see nothing more splendid than the face with which you began. It gives me pleasure to watch you in this redundant act.

Our last time together was so very warm. The silk of your skin was the coat of China. I kissed your eyelids and ate strawberries from between you thighs. The tastes were us; histories blurred I could not distinguish then from now. We moved within a