Thursday, April 10, 2014


This poem is for Katsuho--if she wants it.

She helped me see things I saw,
but never took the time to see.

She was subtlety and nuance
amidst my bluster and bluff.

I took her age as leverage
until she turned me over and pinned me.

She left Japan for passion
yet remained passionately Japanese.

I need to see the Cherry Blossoms. Take me
to the park.

I laughed at all things
natural; disparaged beauty,
encouraged chaos and hid
inside a tear.

She knew that terror.

She nurtured those feelings
and raised herself instinctually
while I was busy learning
basic medication
and mendacity.

Look at the flesh,
she said, feel the petals blush.
At first, I pretended I knew
what she meant
until she gave me back
my childhood.

I married her,
then fell in love with her.
Became frightened of her
and what I had with her,
twisted and subverted her
until she became undone
and we became history.

It's been well over a decade
since I've seen, spoken to,
or wrote her.
But I saw the Cherry Blossoms
on the news tonight. And now
I see her books on my shelves
and hear her music in my head
and see her art on my walls.
We spent ten good years together
and shared all manner of things
that make nutty people like us
fall in love with other nutty people:
Monk, Miles, Billie, Dinah,
Nina, Murakami, Roeg, Godard, Andy,
Buk, Selby, deKooning, Pablo, Bach,
Yo-Yo, Bee, Celine, the Yanks, Knicks,
ping-pong...but it was the opening
in our bodies, bodies that bled
into each other
that etched and imprinted, cemented
each to each...

I will go
to Central Park
this weekend.
Winter is finally
in our rearview mirror and
I know where
the Cherry Blossoms are
and how soon they'll fall.
I will allow
my soul to drift
and be slowed
and attuned
to other rhythms
and I'll meander
under the trees,
in the grass,
to their music
and thank you,
my dear,
once again.

Norman Savage
Greenwich Village, 2014

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