Illustration by Andres Garzon
The Beauty (Monday)
She walks in ways that can be seen on runways bridging Eden to New York. Assertive yet delicate, her beauty leads with a rhythm only those with magical hearing can dance to. She reinvents style, unaware of her influences left inked in the eyes of observers. Her wild and blinding golden locks purify the air they bounce into. The coating of her skin slightly exposes imperfections, scars redefining what it is to live through death. Touching it caused ripple effects in the lives of men who now wander Earth with the infectious perfume it emanates in souls. Her legs extend from the soil her soles clean with every step she takes. She hosts a bosom calling for repopulation: shapes Bouguereau imagined but certainly only witnessed in dreams. The taste cunnilingus leaves on lips reveals how much work bees must endure to create such nectar. My hands tremble at night from withdrawal when her back is unavailable for caresses. Oh, her eyes! What can a poor poet say that isn’t a Tinder cliché? These celestial blue organs will dilate yours to your core when she stares into them. You’ll see yourself in them though the wisdom she shares, a self you’ll know will never rest from a thirst that cannot be satiated: her.
The Mama (Tuesday)
She knew the fruit of her wound would be nurtured to sweetness. They said, “The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree;” I say it has never fallen. Their union tied like a stem to an apple. Their gravity as centered as the stone of a peach. In one birth, she made humanity ten times better, a seed that will multiply from its future bloom. One plié at a time, it announces to the world it has arrived. She will endure sacrifices with divine pleasure and ask for the painful path as reward. Armed with the possibilities of the unknown, she carves a path through the deep wild. Loaded with unshakable doubts, she acts with certainty. She is a mother to all she encounters. She leads the young heart to dance as a principle with the humbleness of an understudy. Separated yet together, they carry the flaming torch from mountains to steel towers 52 times in repetition. She was given a body to carry and a love that carries away. Oh, Mother, disciple of Marie and virgin to evil . . . hold us all. Heal the stone doctrine of the soccer mom’s pursuit of wasteful dreams. Take pride in her because it is you she is a vision of. Your legacy can be withdrawn without penalties. I have seen the future and your capital is safe. Mama, your intuitive investment has matured and I long to spend it with you.
The Brain (Wednesday)
She engineers ingenious schemes and brought me home using the biggest one: false advertising on Tinder. I wasn’t intending to purchase, but her wit made me a buyer. Oh, yes! Those golden locks got me looking, but her grey matter enslaved me. Business, literature, or love, you are witnessing the evolution of humanity. I have walked the valleys of shallowness and swam through waves of glibness. I have committed lustful crimes in the name of loneliness and degraded love, for which I was sentenced to excruciating nights of wasteful talks. But pardoned I have been by Coeus de Titanby kneeling at the altar of her intelligence. A renowned master of intuition, she balances the red vital organ with anxious thoughts on the human condition. Decisions emanate from places that are neither understood nor meant to be. The proof is in the pudding as the tiny dancer displays encouraging signs only expected in a devoted disciple. Humbled I have been, more will I be, for her silent wisdom speaks loudly. An architect of ideas, she draws lines following god’s design. She . . . makes me smart for loving her.
The Writer (Thursday)
She moves pens like Chopin’s fingers on keys. Effortless in her discipline, the daily rituals come at sunset or when darkness descends. Dates, places, and facts merge seamlessly with utopian philosophies on what should be. Notebooks are filled with pain and overloaded with hope. Fear is not present, yet courage is buried in pages of blood. She values words at a price only rivaled by the gold in her hair. Manuscripts are maintained like breathing artifacts and stored for all to lay eyes on. It is this vulnerability she longs to expose, hidden on the surface of sliced trees. Paper serves her like a master. The ink reveres her as it forms shape dictated by her soul. Unware of her post-life literary fame, her beauty is invisible to common mortals. Death did not dare to fulfill its duty in respect for the incomplete masterpiece. It left some scars but spared her talent. She loves the stories of scriptures while disobeying them. But she kneels before the prophet’s artistic delivery. Humble poets worship her, though she is unaware of her godly ways. Publishers are soon to know the meaning of regret and acknowledge their blindness. Employers have awakened to spread her gospel through poetic proposals. The culmination of her experiences immortalized in black fluid. She’s a writer.
The Lover (Friday)
She loves in angles and straight lines.In new fashion or ancient ways, it is for me to select. This is where the Beauty, the Mama, the Brain and the Writer settle without borders. Love is her muse; the muse is hers. Embraces put on display a thousand year of practice. Gently yet firmly, she tells stories about it that only her heart can translate. Rivaled without warning, my crown was ripped away; she possesses a stronger love. She climbs me and descends unannounced, my mouth cleaned by her purifying fluids. As I move in her, boundaries are crossed, awaking the unspeakable. The shadow of her buttock enchains my sight. Enslaved to her curves so are my hands. As my sweat pours down her breasts, our need for culmination approaches, and yet our desire for continuity expends. In the comfort of her nest, our naked vessels know they are home. Every inch is accounted for and appreciated. She creates in me waves of pleasure that return like tides. Her humanity envelopes all, but in these moments, I am her chosen one. Until her, these nights were out of reach of my imagination. The bridge to reality above this river was a smooth ride. But now that my manhood has been delightfully enjoyed, I must swim back to her.
YVES GRAVEL first picked up the guitar at age 8 and at age 14 found a kindred spirit in Leonard Cohen—beginning a life long journey with Cohen’s romantic, somber and avant-garde devotion to song writing, poetry, and literature. Yves spent over a decade between Montreal, Vancouver and Kelowna exploring purist theology and philosophy before relocating to Alberta. It was here that his desire for personal renaissance manifested into song writing, resulting in bilingual Canadiana anthems of love, anguish and resolve.
Yves has explored diverse genres and credits an open approach to collaboration with The Talent as the major source of influence for adopting new sounds. His personal playlist includes genres of punk-rock, French folk, opera and electro. Yves currently resides in Calgary with his cat Leonard, where he devotes himself to an unapologetic life of wine, romance and the daily commute.
Copyright © 2018 by Yves Gravel. All rights reserved.
Montréal Writes 