Francis Bennion - Poetry - Poemotions - A Man's Desire for a Boy

The line between that youth and this old male is
fine-drawn, with awareness by me of his sleekness -
as well as his toned muscles and flat belly.
And other awareness - more than I have.

But some bemused awareness I do have;
in part I share it with him:
share it with the toned muscles and flat belly -
even with that sleek skin.

Does he know I share this awareness with him?
He would need some fine sense of civility
to achieve such knowledge
and not put down or use it.

Has he that fine sense? Why yes I think, subdued,
he does have that fine uncertain sense.
So he says nothing, only glances round,
for fear of saying the wrong thing.

Start of page 243 in the book

Why Not Stay Fifteen For Ever?

Do some French think quatorze
a magical age for a boy, or quinze?
Somewhere in the Midi or Provence
there must be some withdrawn, eccentric, recluse
liable to muse
on that in-between state.

Boys who are younger will feel some respect
induced perhaps by forcible means.
The men who are older
might look back fleetingly, and see themselves
with peachy face, furry round the mouth,
voice newly debased;

flashing eye, tumbled hair,
emotions askew
vivid, but askew,
and say thank God I grew
out of that:
one wouldn't want to be like that for long.

Now please study me, mature,
shiny wife, shiny kids,
shiny car, shiny suit.
Isn't it all an improvement?
I'm not sure what to answer:
better stay mute.

Start of page 244 in the book

Loving Capacity

You in your teens, you with your bright eyes,
I in my forties, what could come of that?
You hold unused, imagined but not known,
a fully-equipped love kit;
designed with cunning (I know) to take in and work upon
the first it feels as lover.

Shall I tip my husks
into your loving capacity?
What good would that do you?
It would be like the first of my vain loves -
no better for you than it was for me;
and no better for me than any of the others.

These idle questions I put to myself, not you;
I put them while I wait, holding your sweating hand.
Wait on a threshold, wondering
if yet again I shall go blundering in;
while you, heart hammering, breathlessly,
strive to keep your wits.

Even this little far is further
than you have yet been led upon that way you know
only by guesswork, and at second hand.
You're not a fool, and nor am I;
if you were, you could pass your way for me.
I am no seducer of young fools.

You smile at me; already your eyes,
whites of bluish-white mounting unfathomable irises,
glowing blue round a small black entry
lashed round with beaten gold
like the gold of lush, abundant hair
that tumbles shining to the whiteness of your neck -

Start of page 245 in the book

Already those keen young eyes
hold traces of an adoration I, experienced
could bring easily, blazingly to life.
You're not a fool, and nor am I;
if you were a fool you could pass your way for me.
I say again, I'm no seducer of young fools.

Is it better then
to be the seducer of a green whizz kid?
That's the voice I'm sick of, always around with its smart-alec quips-
a knowall allocated years ago
to spoil each fumbling effort that I make
in that stumbling walk to paradise.

Let's be sensible - it's got to come some time, that groping.
A law of nature says so, and we can't buck the law.
Silence from the knowall, but I know what he's thinking.
You stopped your chatter when I took your hand.
I talk too much you said - and now
you do not talk at all.

And nor do I; we are waiting for something.
Even the constant jerks of your young body
are still: nothing else could still them but this waiting -
waiting to know whose initiative will decide.
You could get up and go
but you do not.

You could withdraw your hand, but there it stays
exactly where it is.
You could bend forward and kiss me
but that is yet to come.
So you just look, and over your young face
expressions fleet like shadows of small clouds.

Nothing is still in nature, and my hands
moving themselves, now take in more of yours.
Inside my head a struggle still goes on. I've learnt too much.
I want to go. The muscles in my calves start flexing.
Almost, I stand up.
I want to go. I cannot face again what lies ahead.