Candle In The Thighs Poem by gershon hepner

When a candle in the thighs
inflames my woman, lucky men
like me respond without surprise,
allowing the equestrienne
to mount them, rushing like wildwater
in a steeplechase whose hurdles
present a challenge to each quarter,
fore and hind, that she engirdles.

Night dissolving in her sockets,
she will scent success as soon
as she can feel exploding rockets
guided to her waxing moon,
till the steeple that she chased
performs the function for which it
had been erected with good taste,
creating with a crash a hit.


Inspired by a poem by Dylan Thomas:

Light Breaks Where No Sun Shines

Light breaks where no sun shines;
Where no sea runs, the waters of the heart
Push in their tides;
And, broken ghosts with glowworms in their heads,
The things of light
File through the flesh where no flesh decks the bones.

A candle in the thighs
Warms youth and seed and burns the seeds of age;
Where no seed stirs,
The fruit of man unwrinkles in the stars,
Bright as a fig;
Where no wax is, the candle shows its hairs.

Dawn breaks behind the eyes;
From poles of skull and toe the windy blood
Slides like a sea;
Nor fenced, nor staked, the gushers of the sky
Spout to the rod
Divining in a smile the oil of tears.

Night in the sockets rounds,
Like some pitch moon, the limit of the globes;
Day lights the bone;
Where no cold is, the skinning gales unpin
The winter's robes;
The film of spring is hanging from the lids.

Light breaks on secret lots,
On tips of thought where thoughts smell in the rain;
When logics die,
The secret of the soil grows through the eye,
And blood jumps in the sun;
Above the waste allotments the dawn halts.

8/7/08