Skin...

Tonight I had the privilege of hearing Dr. April Linder, from St. Joseph's University in Philadelphia, read several poems, most of which are from her book, Skin.

It is always therapeutic for me to hear authors read their own works, and when I saw the poster hanging in Abilene Hall, advertising tonight's poetry reading, I knew it was just what I needed.

And it was. I promptly purchased Skin and had her sign it. Sitting here tonight, reading back over several of her poems, I am truly amazed by her art, and how she is able to intertwine the physical with the spiritual, beauty with reality, sensuality with everyday life.

I will post two of her poems below; I hope you enjoy them.

Crystal

It began as accident, a moment
beside you on a bench, our forearms touching.
(You didn't pull away; neither did I.)
As if our skins were porous and your soul
were liquid, you poured into me.
Like crystal,
my voice took on a new note, full of you,
and from your voice I knew you likewise full,
our conversation vibrant as the chime
of champagne glasses touched in celebration,
a fragile music tuned by borrowed contents,
each narrow flute enriched by what it holds
the song provisional, the precise note
inspiring thirst, but altered by a sip.

Learning to Float

Relax. It's like love. Keep your lips
moist and parted, let your upturned hands
unfold like water lilies, palms exposed.

Breathe deeply, slowly. Forget chlorine
and how the cement bottom was stained
blue so the water looks clear

and Caribbean. Ignore the drowned mosquitoes,
the twigs that gather in the net
of your hair. The sun is your ticket,

your narcotic, blessing your chin,
the floating islands of your knees.
Shut your eyes and give yourself

to the pulsating starfish, purple and red,
that flicker on your inner lids.
Hallucination is part of the process,

like amnesia. Forget how you learned
to swim, forget being told
Don't panic. Don't worry. Let go

of my neck. It's only water. Don't think
unless you're picturing Chagall,
his watercolors of doves and rooftops,

lovers weightless as tissue,
gravity banished, the dissolving voices
of violins and panpipes. The man's hand

circles the woman's wrist so loosely,
what moors her permits her to float,
and she rises past the water's skin,

above verandas and the tossing heads
of willows. Her one link to earth,
his light--almost reluctant--touch is a rope

unfurling, slipping her past the horizon,
into the cloud-stirring current. This far up,
what can she do but trust he won't let go?