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I once met a woman with an unearthly beautiful smile. She did not understand this poem when I gave it to her. Perhaps you will.
Poetry is so personal, so intimate, that expecting other people to see or feel the rationale and emotive momentum of the moment of poetic conception and passion can not always be expected to happen. It’s enough to say that this was yet another unsuccessful romance and more rich and thick layers of an experience of human relationships and emotional life were deposited, as though sediment. Thus far: my bad relationships bring forth poetry; my good relationships - silence.
Embers
The crucible of your smile :
at once formless forged shadow
and light upon this,
my austere internal geography.
Where rivers run red through black
and shell-like turn to dust,
measured in moments caressed
half-blessed, less forgotten and us.
Indigenous hourglass and obsidian tutor
of erosion’s soft and molten metre.
My memory, my art - all emblems :
swollen embers in time and your facade.
RSS 
:))
”She would smile and cars would crash, birds would fall dead out of trees, lunar eclipses, earthquakes, volcanic catastrophe, national delirium - and so on. It really was a beautiful smile...”
Perhaps these lines of yours would have had a better effect. :)
:)
Seriously, poetry is born out of momentary insanity of the ethereal kind, if there ever is one. :)
You know what they say, the Golden Age comes after the Dark Ages! :)
In my society, it is said that prostitutes never kiss their clients. This is, notionally, because kissing is considered to be too personal, too intimate - that there is a barrier which is crossed in kissing that is not kissed in other elements of the prostitutes’ work.
&nsbp; I would suggest that in some measure all writers are whores, gesticulating and postulating efficiently or at times half-heartedly for the dollar bill. In the degree to which writing and communicating poetry is an intimate experience, the poet is like the whore who kisses; the jaded artiste who says: ”here, have my truth and make it your own, try to understand my experience and in this act of further communicative intimacy I will perhaps come to further understand my own experience - through giving up unto you, I gain more depth of understanding of my own predicament, my own conundrum.”
&nsbp; It is a difficult thing to display poetry to others for these reasons of intimacy. Yet, I pucker up regardless. ;)
On Golden Ages: I hope so. I have been stumbling around in the dark and silence for so long that my shins are covered in bruises from walking into the furniture... (*sigh*) Silence is golden. (*ouch*).
:)