An Amorous Poet?

in ,

A random photo
Am currently taking one USP class on creative writing. According to my lecturer and friends, some of my draft poems are implicitly sensual.

I've no idea how they managed to come to such a conclusion.

H2 + H2 + O2 -> H2O + H2O

And so, I dodge those vast nostrils,
avoiding their suction.
I’m awake, careful, vigil –
my playmate is in sight.

She jiggles with dulcet delight,
alluring as always.
It is meant to be and tonight,
we promise: we’ll react.

That obese party wobbles in,
while I buzz to H2.
No, no, no! Not this sin!
The fond memories flutter past.

We collide, all bruised and broken,
then become different.
Our past love hence unspoken,
bound forever in triplets.

Comment from lecturer
This is, for me, a riddle poem, and a fine one, as the riddle has me stumped. I figure the "I" is an atom (I am NO scientist), yet also an allegorical figure for something else, as seen in the very last stanza. Your poem reminds me a great deal of John Donne's style; the Metaphysical poets were fond of conceits, taken by the 'science' of their day, and by double entendres (as were Shakespeare and co.) I find yr last stanza particularly teasing :-)
Comments from friends
Who's the obese party? Oh, oxygen! Obese oxygen, hahah!
Gosh, are they having a threesome?!
Intended meaning
I tried not to wince when I heard their comments. This is a poem on the reaction between two hydrogen molecules and an oxygen molecule. I wanted this reaction to be a metaphor for broken relationships, unplanned collisions and fractured families. I've no idea how my friend managed to interpret it as a threesome.
Grey on grey

Grey is the bastard child of black and white,
curdling in the damp and silence.
And grey is your answer that blights.

This child – unloved, reviled, trite –
squirms to an amniotic cadence.
Grey is this bastard child of black and white.

It cloys your throat with quiet spite,
with acceptance (or its semblance).
And grey is this answer that blights.

With a veneer of monotony, it smites,
striking, striking you into temperance.
Grey is your bastard child of black and white.

It de-colourises every word and lights
a wick hinting at a flagrance.
And grey is this answer that blights.

On your fleshy tongue, it writhe,
twisting in its imagined valiance.
Grey is this bastard child of black and white,
And grey is your answers that blights.

Conversation with a friend
Is this about a La-Chi?
      Huh? What's a La-Chi?
It is the dialect for 'French kiss'.
      What? French kiss?!
The writhing, fleshy tongue is a metaphor for a French kiss, right?
I smacked my forehead and left my palm there while I tried to suppress a grimace. How can a poem on repressed, ambivalent answers become one on a French mouth-to-mouth?

I should just stick to conducting chemical experiments.

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