Sample Poems by J.D. Smith
Ars Amoris
Even if you feel prepared to love,
it may be best
to start with something
smaller than humanity
or a lover.
A stone the size of your fist will suffice.
It can be held in one hand,
but not hidden.
Its weight will change your stride.
It can be thrown
no more than a few steps away,
to be found in deep grass
by stubbing your toe.
The stone you choose
should not be porous to persuasion.
It must not glisten with crystal,
glower with obvious ore.
Its stone skin must reflect no light.
Its center—more of the same,
fern-fossil, or agate—
can be revealed only through a fall
from a great height,
or a great hammer’s landing,
but to dash this stone
would turn it into another thing,
or things—a hapless plurality,
of gravel, then sand.
To ensconce this stone
in wall or fence, however solidly,
would turn it into a part, a mere means.
But this stone, you decide,
is an end in itself,
its own monument,
marking no mile
and no trail.
You bring the stone inside from the seasons
of prying ice and fevered dew.
To lose a chip is unthinkable.
A scratch is to be mourned.
There is no word from the stone
regarding your devotions,
which means there is work to do:
a place must be cleared on a deep mantle,
a spot in the center of the bed.
When this is done, the stone
will keep its own counsel,
as it has from the start.
Such constancy is a reproach.
How often have you thought
of bus fare, packing a lunch,
of so many things that are not the stone?
You redouble your attentions,
use up your sick days,
then your vacation,
take days off with no excuse
and risk being fired,
in sacrifice to the object
of your love,
with evenings and weekends
to give praise, to hold,
hours of candlelight and roses.
Many pass, and still
the stone is unmoved.
It seems to grow distant.
Watching for its slightest variation,
a return to some orbit of grace
that must have prevailed before,
melts the soul’s remaining fat
and leaves you feeding on a single thought
that gives its name
as to give, to please.
Then the thought begins to waste,
unfed by fact.
What’s left is another thought:
this stone, shaped for someone else’s hand,
must be set out for that hand to find.
Laying the stone in a place
of both sun and shade,
you press a thumbprint on the surface
and turn away.
Now practiced in love,
you may advance to a lily, even
a small and simple fish.
To be sure, though, you may wish to try
another stone.
Celibate
I must have wires
instead of bones;
instead of flesh,
congealed shadow
like clay pressed
on a sculptor’s study
or the pressed resin
of action figures.
A cage of angles,
I turn with a jerk,
and part crowds.
A point extending
from a finger-tip
might draw blood;
another, from a shoulder,
could summon lightning.
The Suitor Reviews His Talking Points
Because diamonds are transported
in brown paper bags.
Because a durian that goes unsold in Chicago
would be a staple in Singapore.
Because penicillin arose
from aging bread.
Because a twisted bone, too, yields marrow.
Because, knowing this,
you are worthy.
Reply
Your letter was thin,
almost transparent,
yet folded precisely
as the inner wrapper
of a Japanese rice candy
that you can peel off and let melt,
warm snowflake in the mouth,
or leave on to dissolve
with its contents
in one sweet piece.
Once, not knowing
where to begin, I tried this
with the outer wrapper.
The thick paper was unchanged,
without flavor, or sustenance—
the opposite of your few words.