Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry
Poetry of the People
After the painting La Belle Dame Sans Merci by Sir Frank Dicksee
But it is not me
–not me in that painting.
John Keats was ever alone and destined
To die young—he was consumed,
Consumed—I tell you—with disease
Not me.
And yet. Continue reading “Lancelot”
As a girl I gathered the gooseberries
effortlessly and helped my mother bake the pies.
I knew just how much sugar was needed
for the berries—and I could sense
their taste by lightly squeezing them
and measure the tautness or softness
against the sugar. I was always right.
Women paid my mother to have me
make the pies for their festival
offerings or weddings or homecoming feasts. Continue reading “Elaine”
LancelotThe apple trees are pregnant with misted fruit,
dangling like the locket holding your hair,
which I keep in memory of that pursuit,
lost in a love, without I cannot bear.
I have walked across the fields to find you.
I have shuttered my heart to the world’s gaze,
made ready the clasp for you to undo,
made still my heart that is yearning to blaze.
Where are those who still demand this is wrong?
Who see only betrayal, not love’s proof?
I contain operas, not just one song.
Love does not abide by a single truth.
Yes, I am joined to him and know my vows,
and I will love you as long as flesh allows.
–Shaun Perkins
Rural Oklahoma Museum of Poetry 