The We That Is Us That Is You That Is Me



You on top of me…
I could hear, see, taste,
talk, feel, think, sense,
build, perceive, emote,
support, create, uplift, greet,
chance, smell…nothing more,
as if some graybeard Greek,
spouting unintelligibly
did speak but one
clear word.
Before some hoary curse or hex be cast,
I dared look so longingly as to stare into your soul,
and as I imagined seeing your soul,
I felt your piercing gaze beholding mine.
Ah, sweet bliss…
mutual gazes locked,
to experience such swooning rapture
transports better
could surely
not be felt!

Somehow, perhaps the lingering presence
of stranger graybeard lurking,
my external awareness permitted
further visual enticements.
For upon the wall
behind your dew drenched shoulders,
a vision blurry and fading fast,
portentous pair of paintings
future foretold ours all too well.
We might have then
taken care to properly prepare,
had wits been present witness
of our sacred shared hypnosis.
For entwined together peering,
over your left shoulder teeming,
did linden and oak becoming—
Demeter’s promised gift
to selfless Baucis and Philemon—
speak bark-blocked muted
words at me.

Did any wonder then,
I wondered,
floating in your dappled brooks,
where two did disappear?
And what of us,
two who now dally
sharing grand soulscapes,
is this akin to ecstatic refuge,
the utopia where other lovers aim to stay,
an eternal moment longer
in this divine infinity?
Oh, if only it could be…
somehow our power co-created
could shun the lurking graybeard stranger,
thereby no longer interrupted be.
What of our stories unfolding,
and glories abruptly ended,
do our needs reveal
a tale’s telling heeded be?

Still, as if omens and portents herald not,
I revel and luxuriate,
soaking in an out of body euphoria
at finally feeling you closer than a handshake.
Here it is,
the time to drink in your whole beingness,
to commune with you alone,
no others in the world
as time loses its own reflection
and shatters.
The thought that circled ceaselessly—
as desired evermore,
upon our first acquaintance—
now attained,
has universe and time
obliterated.
HereNowThen we,
holding you holding me,
so closely embraced,
might thus better warrant veiled vision
escorting shrouded hearing.
There was something forcing me
to continue these sights of suffering seeing,
and so I turned my fearful vision
toward your other shapely shoulder.
Startled to see a titanic water-world,
very near my eyelashes,
unleashed,
a dew droplet dripped
upon my tautly stretched clavicle,
as vision moved upwards
to see
Daphne’s laurel transformation.

Oh, she the ill-fated nymph of water and grove,
a former World Tree
whose divine and mighty power,
while conferring gifts of wisdom,
peace, and longevity,
somehow ill-minds conceived,
threw threats, contempt, and upheaval.
Ah, the ill-begotten imbalance
of male-centric cultures
whose utter reigns of terror
frequently challenge stewardship.
A thought worth expansion later,
murmured I,
returning groggily,
to see Daphne’s transformation.
What terrifying power
over your right shoulder appears,
in a whirlwind of energy that allows
no clarity from without.
So that any would-be trespasser
seeking that beautiful nymph
would clearly see naught but laurel tree,
for with her father’s power,
conferring her fervent plea,
had focusing channeled desires
thus been forsook.

My vision now fully fractal of you,
views of Baucis, Philemon, Daphne and you
swirling together,
in some mysterious union of souls,
did you present the wonders of the world.
What odd timing then for an unwelcome visit!
For the stranger graybeard lurking
had never left our paradigm
despite its transformative raptures
in numinous totality.
As he neared,
failing interpretation of rustles, cracks, wiggles,
sniffs, puffs, sniggles,
creaks, croaks, jiggles,
shuffles, scrapes, wriggles,
scribbling caduceus cane-scratched squiggles,
in the air upon a wall he scarred:
“Metamorphose…”,
which upon first hearing
it was last hearing,
for bark enveloped crown to ankles…

But “What then happened?”
wondered first one then the other of the pair of lovers-would-be…
As ankles downward dug in fast,
feet below the green ground grew,
out and down, down, tapping roots,
to grip security deeply down and out.
Dirty deeds in grubbing hands later attest that very spot,
without awareness their clouded eyes
see only an oddly scarred crimson X.
Those who know what really happened
dare not confess the truth,
lest they be guilty found
for what must be the devil’s bidding
these bizarre deviant acts of psychomythology.
Still, on that deed that X so-scarred,
crimson wobbly made,
matched only one other cane-tip writing.
What odd magic might induce the unveiling
of their hiding place
someday to free
them
from the ancient magic
of that stranger graybeard’s
other lone word scarred,
Metamorphose.

Yes, we need to fathom more
what Daphne,
Philemon and Baucis,
laurel,
linden and oak
might possibly mean
in combination with stranger graybeard
cane-tipping crimson X and Metamorphose.
So, to this purpose cling did we entwined two,
from within our entreed confinement,
we set our sights on shedding bark and roots,
focusing our shared minds, souls, and bodies.
And, although at times feeling so near,
yearning overwhelmed learning,
as entreed trauma returning manifests heartburning,
we continued with our purpose.
Content despite shared memories
of how tragic burning bridges’ discerning,
once reflections in soul’s shared mirror pools
are drunk heftily,
doth renew yearning overcome spurning,
which instills unified comfort in us each
as two souls churning find solace learning
fanning flames burning births returning
to shared peace yearning
do go as we too shall find…

Here we linger as we want,
neither over other or under whether yonder,
each inside each other,
each outside each other,
each together a union of souls entreed
yet freed to soar and sail
wherever needed
to reveal the secret sacred magic utterance.
Thenwhere, once found,
to maybe drag our roots a bit,
reveling in our union,
drinking in our souls,
pleasuring in our symbiosis
to hearts beating as one,
playing games myriad of mental variation,
and copiously feeling our bodies
thus conjoined and interpenetrating,
and wondering aloud inside barky fetters,
how can we aptly describe this blissful wishful this,
this wished bliss this,
this bliss wish this,
this us treed two?

For you were me as we became
first your curved…
then my tight…
then your flashing eyes
that pierced the veil cloistering my soul:
“Oh rapturous joy!”
said we who were me and you,
treed freeing me
to dive back into you
that was me
become we.

“Words,” sayeth I—"
deeper in than out, of movements eyes rapidly,
“fuel visions, like sacred feeling conflagrations burning chaff to purify;
offer love for fooliship for anchor; and, love for anchor for fooliship.
Despite the bared coppice wherethen surged the offering of love,
the surreal largesse of sacred love,
none will at times into harbor sail concurrently,
and other times shall everyone throng on deck at once,
to each one then, their opposite nature a’ blundering go,
shunning their soulmates as if the world were their shoal,
spurning virtuous advances of their soulmates,
to focus intentions sharply on that other instead.
Pointless, the gauntlet of heartbreak felt,
when upon countless parries countered,
steadfast devotion’s disastrous,
as surrender solidifies their eyes,
locked in lustful gaze upon that other prize,
whose fully invested purpose so drastically revealed,
whence those eyes, the wrong eyes,
espied your soulmate first,
and heeding not blustery heart-thumping thunder
upon your triumphal entry scorns,
you see so forlornly beyond your imploring,
 that the plight of those ignoring soulmate songs harmonious,
demands profoundly greater fee than cherished love endures.”—
“Oh, and how kowtow now plowing browning flowers
frowning cow cowers sour hours our powerful dowager trowels
flowering towers toweling flour glowers lour horrors!”,
He said with glee and delirie freely reeling….   
He continued, in a singsong delivery that was at once confounding
and boyishly charming for she could tell he was at play,
“Words…at times make love to my fingertips
after licking my neurons,
then head inside,
before the mindtrip though,
they suck my soul to meet them at my pupils,
 then with such ecstasy do they flaunt their various wonderments
as legs entwining reason
and arms hugging logic,
beautifully bouncing tandem those twin cheeks
a’ blabbing go to find their fun fulfillment,
fleeing from, feigning fainted falls
to further arouse what wants to drive,
and of that luscious divinely sculpted belly
rubbing against my will…
I can never get my fill,
while nipples gently press instincts,
and holy lips and tongue swallow hermeneutics,
but lest I mention last,
the best to test, amazing Doctor's rest,
we saved its testimony!
for whilst plainly seen,
I authentically true take sups of genuine brew,
that seen is unthought thought once more given,
for truly am I drinking ambrosia
the divine nectar that gorgeous you
 full of thighs to nuzzle silence
not caring whether subtle sighing,
soon faring intensified supportive sounds making,
we who is you shall singing singing songs,
songs singing sung,
soaking face swimming,
submerged smiling souling,
swallow whole your sup-
per with hovering knees a’ wobbling,
a world apart espying,
and as your womb envelops visceral memories developing,
we who is you enthusiastically greets sunrise with vigor,
as we who is me luxuriating inside,
erects gigantic world spanning murals
created with freely streaming rainbows
from unending pots containing mugs
of frothy mead of inspiration,
to fraught-less dauntlessly flaunting thoughtless haunts unthought
in fought-best terrestrial resting,
at behest of we who is you,
guessed an unknown unknowable unknower,
that place of mossy headstones dotting tombstones
for doting deadhead reverers,
that place is not our place to be
terrestrially covered in soil, stone, snail, worm, mole,
shrew, egg, grub, ant, root, shoot and grass,
oh no!
For our place,
the place of we has no temporality,
has no curses and nothing harsh,
sheds losses and raises lessons,
feeds fertile freely fecund,
forgives forgotten feeling forever,
heralds hobnobbing healing humblesome,
allthewhile in whenwhat therethat original whirling dervish style,
the we that is us that is you that is me
intertwines totally interpenetrating beyond interiorexterior
brilliant implosions eternally skipping through twelve twisting conduits
do they then encounter mirrors reflecting doppelgängers we,
levitating pools of mirrored surface still illuminate doppelgangers us,
cavorting contortions of zeal and zealotry
drained of doctrine and ideology
find no vice lurking and so transforming
into magic hoverliquid rides
end up mischief overbubbling
reflecting the we
that is you
that is me
up into our gazes
at each glance down
to catch a flirty image of each the other one
in whose presence singularly delight and joyful hearthing each night,
yet again we,
the we that is me this moment first,
the we that is you that moment first,
so that eventually our borrowed passionate desires,
embodied in those momentary happily captured glances,
the re-memory of which always dances freshly birthed galaxies
to breathing first gasps filled with lovehausts of inexhaustible source:
the we that is us that is you that is me

About this poem

This poem is written in a meditative style in which the exploration of what it is to pine as a tree for their lover or as a lover of another who has metamorphosed into a tree. In it, I am rehashing some of the Ovidian Daphne myth and Ovidian Baucis and Philemon myth, and in exploring them, partake in a little bit of revisioning them too. This revisioning is something that I think-feel-perceive-intuit the ancient Greeks and any and all other cultures hoped would continue to infinity and beyond. In other words, I hold that myths are stories awaiting their new enstorying and new enlanguaging by those who do. 

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Written on February 18, 2022

Submitted by ScottMPotter on April 24, 2022

Modified on March 05, 2023

10:36 min read
6

Quick analysis:

Scheme Text too long
Closest metre Iambic tetrameter
Characters 11,742
Words 2,119
Stanzas 11
Stanza Lengths 20, 20, 19, 33, 26, 21, 25, 26, 22, 11, 116

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    "The We That Is Us That Is You That Is Me" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 25 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/125394/the-we-that-is-us-that-is-you-that-is-me>.

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