Carole

“A white flower — desire — …. in the night. What the insomniac [like me] saw …. In the snow, a fire alphabet. Huddled there.”

Carole Maso's Aureole drips passion onto my lap. It is too much to hold it there. I fantasize, salivate — fantasize about Sappho, Carson, Winterson; about the ancient Tamil poets who wrote about love and lust, the erotic and the spiritual, with equal fervor — no hierarchy, no shame, just celebration, pure instinct, pure blood, pure ice.

Their text plays havoc with my mind — electrocuting my body — their metaphors too hard to restrain, their passion infinite. I get lost, delirious with words that paint filigree screens, screens and camisoles that aren't transparent nor opaque, visible only to those who read Braille.

Writing on skin, on paper, on pillows, on bedsheets, on stone, on wood, on metal — there are no constraints, no medium that is unsuitable, not even water. Only my mind edits, and nothing else can. I can destroy words physically, ban them, burn books, but I can never erase the narrative and poetry from memory. Words — our greatest gift, our only strength. It is a tactile act, writing. Writing paints. It dreams, it weeps.

My wordsmith is a miniature painter, a quiet artist. She is an incessant lover, she is obsessive, she is relentless. She is kind, she is gentle, she is feminine, she is exquisite. She resides in the 'Exquisite Hour', she lives in Maso. It is magical, it is intoxicating:

“The slur of your touch. Her eyes glacial blue. The opium of your touch …. You suck on the stamen of a poppy. More contended — oh yes …. ashen bridegroom in white …. Magic.”

from Erotext and forthcoming in Blue Nude: New Selected Poems & Translations 1980-2010.