Happy Birthday, H.D. / Hilda Doolittle
(September 10, 1886 - September 27, 1961)
Loved, thumb-stirred toward sleep,
thighs wet, released to dream crystal lines,
verse on a bed of purple sheets, golden pillows.
Crazy Ezra's voice, his longing, his clinging...
others followed like moons, bodies sharp,
bodies front-porch-blocky, women... a few men.
Sappho's sister! Hands upon the delicious rose,
only a pearl necklace on pale-dawn skin
to release burning need. Imagiste! Freud
was too bland... a boaster with bad breath.
Sweet ruinous delight or nothing at all
to make a poem. Heart-goddess,
Aphrodite, saint of lust-sorrow,
the poems have broken through to us,
lean-stemmed, luminous apricot-sweet petals.