SEDUCTION

To seduce - to lure; to lead away. In "The Hummingbird: A Seduction" from Firekeeper: New & Selected Poems, it is a man and woman. But, Pattiann Rogers uses her wonderful ability to take trained observations of nature and animals and relate them to us. This poem is one of the most sensual I have heard in a long time. It is seduction in the classic sense. Yet, not all of us are seduced by the same lures. Some are seduced by money, fame, power - even their own writing. Write a poem of seduction.

A road of sunlight from the window
lies upon the desktop.

My hand moves to cross it.
I am surprised by its heat.

The road leads out
to your house sunset west.

Seduced by sunlight,
my winter body rises.

Should I tell you I am coming?
Will you walk the road with me?

alone

i sat
not asking for any company
content in my unhappy thoughts
but your eyes pierced
the normally unpenetrated exterior
and you saw beyond
recognizing your desire
as i did mine
and your lips, your perfect lips
made promises
promises my lips excepted
fingers sliding electrically
my confusion and lust heaved
for one unknown could never know
but your hands held mine
pleading, nearly audibly
as i held you gaze
the desire recognized now
you would have continued;
oh how i wanted you to
but i said no
so you controlled
your lips continuing to bless my skin
i would have stayed there
with you forever
but at the moment i was so unsure
and as the band announced i started
could this really be the last song
when had they even taken the stage
and i stood up
scared and lustful
you wouldn't release my hand
you refused to go
but i continued to tell you to
rebelling against myself
and so pulled my hand away
i left you standing there
unfulfilled and eager
and as a turned around you smiled
so sad was the smile
the smile of loss
and i continued to walk away
from a man i will never know

i find it could be love or lust
if i could but
your sweet tongue trust
i'd bet it all
take your hand
and bid you with a
wedding band
but since your heart
i know not yet
i'll stack the chips
place my bet
spin cupid's wheel
hope for the best
and let my troubled
conscience rest...

I cherish the time's we have together,
    It seems they are so few.
Words cannot express the love I feel
    In moments shared with you.
Your skin so soft to my touch
    When in my arms you lay.
I wish at times the night
    Would never turn into day.
I've lied awake at nights
    Just to watch you sleep.
The moon reflecting off your face
    I look at you and weep.
I often wonder in those times
    How you've stayed here with me.
I guess there are something's
    That are just supposed to be.
The sparkle in you eyes,
    The glow upon your face.
Tells me without a doubt
    None could take your place.
The first kiss I get each morning
    Lingers throughout the day.
Till the last kiss I get each night
    As to sleep we drift away.

Walking the coast
at the crater of Haleakala,
I look down at the water
thinking I hear their song.

I have taken the boat out
a dozen times this winter
to see them breach, pectoral slap,
and to hear the songs.

Not songs as we know them-
using no air to vocalize.
Phrases in sequences repeated,
varying slightly from year to year.

Only the males sing.
To attract females,
to bully other males,
perhaps, just to sing.

Females conceive in our winter,
may carry calves for a year,
lactate for a year after,
sing no songs.

Who is calling me-
songs or silence?
I too follow the coast.
The deepest waters are darkest blue.

    Dawn

    Trudi hears
    the rooster crow
    his lusty cry an hour before dawn,
    singing his song of pride in the darkness,
    perched on the high post, feathers glistening,
    comb, red as blood, erect.
    The spurred feet grip the post,
    the piercing eye watches for change,
    as if the cries will hasten the conquering sun
    over the world's edge.

    The combed head tilts back.
    Once again the cry against darkness
    with the throat exposed, so vulnerable,
    off guard in the moment of song.

    Royalty in the hen yard, feathers pendant
    from the tail, brighter than a robe
    winking with embroidery and jewels.

    Trudi, between the daisied sheets,
    listens to the calling bird,
    waits to hear her lover's voice
    from the shower, head thrown back
    in the echoing space -- throat exposed,
    the carotid pulse visible, that visible
    warbling pulse she has kissed,
    tasted with her tongue,
    and will master again before the sun
    twists the songs into silence with its clear glare.

When a well played saxophone sends out
its seductive notes, my soul slips quietly
out in search of that wailing call for solace.

It slithers through the smoke hazed night
and seeks to answer that lonely
plaintive plea.