I WAS PRIEST TO YOUR CONFESSION

I was priest to your confession,

though no screen to separate us,

only the restaurant table lain

with tortillas and glasses of rioja,

over which you bared your soul

and told me that I was the object of your desire,

the source of your salvation.

You were my inquisitor,

attempting to break down

the dispassionate screen

that protects me from emotions

and feelings kept bottled and wrapped,

or, as you said, repressed.

Inquisitor and confessor,

you took me to the precipice

where I stood agape,

only to pull back

into platonic embrace.

Published in Free State Review, Issue 2, Summer 2013

Two Poems in Free State Review

Issue number 2 of the Free State Review has been out for a couple months, but I am just now getting round to posting that I've got two poems in the issue:  "I Was Priest to Your Confession" and "The Potato Eaters."  You can find the Free State Review on-line here.  To read the poems, you'll need to pick up a copy of the journal.  I'll post the poems to this blog eventually, but for the time being, the wonderful editors at the Free State Journal need to make a little money.

THE POTATO EATERS

Note (July 27, 2013):  A revised version of this poem was published in the Free State Review, Summer 2013 issue.

When I visited the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam in 2010, I thought I might write a series of poems based on his paintings.  Although I made notes of my thoughts and impressions, I never made an earnest attempt to start the project (with the exception of my poem based around "The Fishing Boats at Saintes Maries de la Mer").  Recent blog posts by Author Amok on ekphrastic poems provided the encouragement to start up the project.  The first poem in this project is inspired by Van Gogh's "The Potato Eaters."  You can find the painting on the Van Gogh Museum's site.


THE POTATO EATERS


In the dim light of our lamp
we gather for our evening meal,
the steaming plate before us.
Apples from the Earth, they are called.
Adam and Eve's gift, I say--
we did not dig in Paradise.

Father serves out our portions.
Mother pours the strong, dark tea.
We eat our simple meal,
the day's labors lifted from our backs.