On this day about love, I'm sharing one of my favorite poems ever. It was written by Michael Ondaatje, who is the author of several works of poetry and books, the most famous being
The English Patient. I first heard the poem in a writing class at Rollins College, and the copy I have was given to me by the professor, Mr. Deaver. He was one of the best teachers I ever had--honest and encouraging. After he read the poem aloud, he asked if anybody wanted a copy. I think I almost broke my wrist raising my hand so quickly! When he handed me the paper I remember saying, "God, I want to write like that." I hope you enjoy it, but here is the warning: if you blush easily or are easily offended, you might want to skip over it. Happy Valentine's Day, everybody.
The Cinnamon PeelerIf I were a cinnamon-peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.
Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutter, monsoon.
Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbour to your hair
or the crease that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.
I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
--your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers . . .
When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said
this is how you touch other women
the grass cutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume
and knew
What good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in the act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.
You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon peeler's wife.
Smell me.
