the proposal

the hare krishna tree
in the foreground,
nine years later.

the tree to the left,
mounded dirt,
remnants of mulch.

it’s the height of summer.
same day.
same place.
dusk.

there is a woman,
unlike the girl nine years before,
a man, unlike that boy,
and no music but the constant drone
of cicadas in somewhere trees.

the grass holds so many--
they find little pockets,
away from one another.
and outside, on benches,
men with tatoos on the edges of their eyes,
swirling down necks and chins,
down arms to wrists and fingers.

we went to that dark place,
expecting joy and finding truth.
we went there,
but for the grace of--
we went, not a part of,
a place that time had taken from us,
a place where dusk had fallen,
would fall forever,
but not here--
and found ourselves outside,
one knee and shining fingers
entwined beneath some other tree,
our nine year kiss complete.

Charles Imbelli 2010

Go forth!

Second Draft

We had roles to play, and we played them, pitch perfect.


I manned the smoker,
tongs and gloves;
the straining weight
of a steel grate
filled overflowing
and the process explained
to each new comer,
curious, intrigued:
the man and his toy,
in the back,
beneath the arbor vitae,
kneeling to stoke the flames
with a blow drier,
stirring the embers;
the sheer tenacity
of a slow cook
in the rain.

We had roles to play--
these men of the party,
crowding near the smoker,
at its center. 
We played at being
men of action,
men of steel and fire,
men of the hunt,
of tracking and killing
and gutting to cook and eat,
to feed ourselves, our women and children--
these men of new york,
artists and poets,
dabbling students at city colleges,
boutique salesmen, law students.

The photos of the event
were on facebook
the next day and paint the picture:
arms fanning the flames
to stoke the slow burn,
to spite the rain--
the bulge of biceps,
the veins of my forearms,
the competent gaze. 
The trappings of suburban masculinity
embodied perfectly. 
I had never dreamt I could appear so collected,
confident,
together.

There was no country music that day.
she wouldn’t have it.
No, that’s not entirely true:
she’d have let me,
she’d have indulged me,
but I knew she’d prefer not to,
and being the man
I bore the weight of that indulgence,
conceded the point.

But I was dressed the part anyway;
the music would have been overkill. 
In the morning,
naked at the waist,
fighting the forces of nature
that conspired to ruin our BBQ,
our engagement party. 
And then,
receiving guests,
in Levi’s,
a Shooter Jennings t-shirt, 
Martin’s BBQ hat,
black leather belt etched with woodland scenes,
the vintage Coca-Cola brass buckle,
the Leatherman at my side,
the heel of my Frye boots
adding two inches
to command respect.

We were all workers that day:
we men of new york--
going forth!
sharing our story,
becoming
our brand. 

Charles Imbelli 
2010

old and new

This is something I had written a number of years ago (ten!), followed by the poem that I wrote as a way of closing the chapter on that part of my life. In putting this collection together, I've gone back and forth about how to group poems--chronologically, topically, etc. Right now I have over 90 pages of work that are not formatted, i.e. one poem just follows another, as opposed to the usually poetry format of a poem per page. So basically, over the last ten years I've produced a LOT. One of the questions I'm forced to ask myself is what to include--what's worth putting out there as an example of "early work?" What stands up on its own, years after the fact, and what's just part of some nascent stage that's best left unpublished? A friend told me that the first poem in this series is obviously the work of a younger poet (which stung a little bit), and on its own just a cute young love poem (which stung a lot), but together with the poem that follows, tells a better story (which took away some of the sting). In any event, that's an argument for a non chronological grouping, at least in this particular instance. What do you think?

untitled (after olympia, by manet)
January 2000

she is beside me,
supine under the sheets of the bunk above us,
a worn blue comforter
barely covering her breasts
against the cold,
blue room.

i look at the scar running down her chest;
so close to her heart,
and i think it is mine.

her profile framed neatly by my pillows,
i think of olympia.

in a moment, i’ll climb out of bed,
daring to photograph her quiet body,
make her giggle as she hugs my pillow,
staring coyly at the camera lens.

in a moment.
for now, i let my fingers circle gently,
over the scar i’ve made my own.

try to forget,
this too must end.

after olympia 2010

her last picture abandoned
in pieces outside the apartment
on Coney Island Avenue,
torn and scattered,
for fear of discovery by a jealous lover.

when she wrote again, vague intentions,
those pieces came to life--
eyes closed, i'd hugged her with my lens.
frayed memories of dying leaves,
that fall day, the pictures taken,
passing remembrance.

the poems,
wondering at the betrayal,
the ghost she was,
the woman she became.

those days,
faded and torn,
the always question
of what might have been,
answered--finally
in the tender moments of a lover's kiss,
answered:

her forever touch belongs to then.

Charles Imbelli
2010

Tarrytown, August 2010

We’re to be married,
in august, ten years to the day
from our first kiss.

I feel so much.
I feel nothing at all.

Head in hands,
the gentle pressure of my palms against my eyes,
a kaleidoscope appears
in the middle distance,
at its radiating center
a purple Buddha.

She speaks of her mindfulness
in everything she does.

How does it feel, she wonders?
The image before me,
like a tearing--the fabric of my soul,
scattered on the wind of her words,
our fateful kiss.

As time stops for us,
she is the thread
permeating everything i touch.

Iridescent wind
casts shadows across the water
her hand shines,
points of light
piercing the way
ahead.

Ten thousand autumns
taking each step for granted,
forever moments threaded through
season after season of heartache--
the fear and the loss,
stitched together.

Fragments of awe,
carried by the gentle wind
of her breath at my back,
pushing always forward.

The birth of a thousand lifetimes shared.
How perfect, she draws me forward;
what failings, my heart breaks
with longing:
a thousand lifetimes,
shared forevermore

Charles Imbelli August 2010