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Places to Return by Dana Gioia There are landscapes one can own, bright rooms which look out to the sea, tall houses where beyond the window day after day the same dark river turns slowly through the hills, and there are homesteads perched on mountaintops whose cool white caps outlast the spring. And there are other places which, although we did not stay for long, stick in the mind and call us back— a valley visited one spring where walking through an apple orchard we breathed its blossoms with the air. Return seems like a sacrament. Then there are landscapes one has lost— the brown hills circling a wide bay I watched each afternoon one summer talking to friends who now are dead. I like to think I could go back again and stand out on the balcony, dizzy with a sense of déjà vu. But coming up these steps to you at just that moment when the moon, magnificently full and bright behind the lattice-work of clouds, seems almost set upon the rooftops it illuminates, how shall I ever summon it again? |
Some poetry
Every great dream begins with a dreamer. Always remember, you have within you the strength, the patience, and the passion to reach for the stars to change the world.
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Endpiece
Often the change expressed in divorce does'nt finish like life finishes. It does'nt end with a bang, nor with a whimper. It's more like
Crossing over I was on a journey to another land. I thought I would know when I crossed over, There would be a fence, a gate, a guard, A sign in two languages. But it was not so. I was a traveler on a road, The road deteriorated into ruts, The ruts filled with sand, The sand drifted this way and that, Once upon a time, there had been a road. Time came I knew I was in a different place, If I had seen the point where I had crossed, it would not have been there. But I had crossed over. |
Maya
I know it's been shared before, but this is a wonderful piece of writing.
Still I Rise You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries. Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise. Maya Angelou |
Kindness
by Naomi Shihab Nye Before you know what kindness really is you must lose things, feel the future dissolve in a moment like salt in a weakened broth. What you held in your hand, what you counted and carefully saved, all this must go so you know how desolate the landscape can be between the regions of kindness. How you ride and ride thinking the bus will never stop, the passengers eating maize and chicken will stare out the window forever. Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness, you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road. You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept him alive. Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say it is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you every where like a shadow or a friend. |
http://ih1.redbubble.net/image.12630...x550,075,f.jpg Spring by Jim Harrison Something new in the air today, perhaps the struggle of the bud to become a leaf. Nearly two weeks late it invaded the air but then what is two weeks to life herself? On a cool night there is a break from the struggle of becoming. I suppose that's why we sleep. In a childhood story they spoke of the land of enchant- ment." We crawl to it, we short-lived mammals, not realizing that we are already there. To the gods the moon is the entire moon but to us it changes second by second because we are always fish in the belly of the whale of earth. We are encased and can't stray from the house of our bodies. I could say that we are released, but I don't know, in our private night when our souls explode into a billion fragments then calmly regather in a black pool in the forest, far from the cage of flesh, the unremitting "I." This was a dream and in dreams we are forever alone walking the ghost road beyond our lives. Of late I see waking as another chance at spring. |
reposting
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Wild by Stephen Dunn The year I owned a motorcycle and split the air in southern Spain, and could smell the oranges in the orange groves as I passed them outside of Seville, I understood I'd been riding too long in cars, probably even should get a horse, become a high-up, flesh-connected thing among the bulls and cows. My brand-new wife had a spirit that worried and excited me, a history of moving on. Wine from a spigot for pennies, langostinas and angulas, even the language felt dangerous in my mouth. Mornings, our icebox bereft of ice, I'd speed on my motorcycle to the iceman's house, strap a big rectangular block to the extended seat where my wife often sat hot behind me, arms around my waist. In the streets the smell of olive oil, the noise of men torn between church and sex, their bodies taut, heretical. And the women, buttoned-up, or careless, full of public joy, a Jesus around their necks. Our neighbors showed us how to shut down in the afternoon, the stupidity of not respecting the sun. They forgave us who we were. Evenings we'd take turns with the Herald Tribune killing mosquitoes, our bedroom walls bloody in this country known for blood; we couldn't kill enough. When the Levante, the big wind, came out of Africa with its sand and heat, disturbing things, it brought with it a lesson, unlearnable, of how far a certain wildness can go. Our money ran out. I sold the motorcycle. We moved without knowing it to take our quieter places in the world. |
A Paris Blackbird by Laure-Anne Bosselaar Along the Seine's left bank, near the Pont-Neuf, on the mansard roof of my hotel, a scruffy blackbird squats by a chimney pot. Every day for a week now, I have listened to him sing his April a cappella. Not once has he repeated the same song, not once has he left for the chestnut trees by the river, where he would have a better chance of being heard, a better chance of enchanting some bronze-breasted female, or lovers taking time off from noise. His song is all that counts. It soars over roofs and terra-cotta chimneys, its trills cut by taxis, cars and trucks coughing through the Parisian rush. On the right bank of the Seine, three hours into Le Louvre's maze, past Persian mosaics, glass-caged coins and Egyptian amulets, I slip out of the tourist herd and head for a chair in a corner of the Greek Hall. I sit there, shoeless, numb with knowledge and history and stare at the bust of an old woman, labeled Anonymous, Greek, 11 BC. She looks at me: weary, terrible with banality, lips open, neck taut as if she were about to sing. And as the crowds flock toward the Venus de Milo, nod at her beauty gawk at her perfect breasts, I look at this nameless woman, as I did the scruffy blackbird—and listen for the cry caught in her bronze throat. |
Promise Yourself
Promise Yourself
To be so strong that nothing can disturb your peace of mind. To talk health, happiness, and prosperity to every person you meet. To make all your friends feel that there is something in them To look at the sunny side of everything and make your optimism come true. To think only the best, to work only for the best, and to expect only the best. To be just as enthusiastic about the success of others as you are about your own. To forget the mistakes of the past and press on to the greater achievements of the future. To wear a cheerful countenance at all times and give every living creature you meet a smile. To give so much time to the improvement of yourself that you have no time to criticize others. To be too large for worry, too noble for anger, too strong for fear, and too happy to permit the presence of trouble. To think well of yourself and to proclaim this fact to the world, not in loud words but great deeds. To live in faith that the whole world is on your side so long as you are true to the best that is in you.” ― Christian D. Larson |
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Hug O' War
I will not play at tug o' war. I'd rather play at hug o' war, Where everyone hugs Instead of tugs, Where everyone giggles And rolls on the rug, Where everyone kisses, And everyone grins, And everyone cuddles, And everyone wins." ~Shel Silverstein |
This is a favorite, in honor of all of the wonderful gender-variant and trans-gendered people who have been in my life, whose hearts are this brave.
Bedecked By Victoria Redel Tell me it’s wrong the scarlet nails my son sports or the toy store rings he clusters four jewels to each finger. He’s bedecked. I see the other mothers looking at the star choker, the rhinestone strand he fastens over a sock. Sometimes I help him find sparkle clip-ons when he says sticker earrings look too fake. Tell me I should teach him it’s wrong to love the glitter that a boy’s only a boy who’d love a truck with a remote that revs, battery slamming into corners or Hot Wheels loop-de-looping off tracks into the tub. Then tell me it’s fine—really—maybe even a good thing—a boy who’s got some girl to him, and I’m right for the days he wears a pink shirt on the seesaw in the park. Tell me what you need to tell me but keep far away from my son who still loves a beautiful thing not for what it means— this way or that—but for the way facets set off prisms and prisms spin up everywhere and from his own jeweled body he’s cast rainbows—made every shining true color. Now try to tell me—man or woman—your heart was ever once that brave. http://rinabeana.com/poemoftheday/in...ictoria-redel/ |
Auguries of Innocence - William Blake
To see a world in a grain of sand
And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, And eternity in an hour. A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage. A dove-house fill'd with doves and pigeons Shudders hell thro' all its regions. A dog starv'd at his master's gate Predicts the ruin of the state. A horse misused upon the road Calls to heaven for human blood. Each outcry of the hunted hare A fibre from the brain does tear. A skylark wounded in the wing, A cherubim does cease to sing. The game-cock clipt and arm'd for fight Does the rising sun affright. Every wolf's and lion's howl Raises from hell a human soul. The wild deer, wand'ring here and there, Keeps the human soul from care. The lamb misus'd breeds public strife, And yet forgives the butcher's knife. The bat that flits at close of eve Has left the brain that won't believe. The owl that calls upon the night Speaks the unbeliever's fright. He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be belov'd by men. He who the ox to wrath has mov'd Shall never be by woman lov'd. The wanton boy that kills the fly Shall feel the spider's enmity. He who torments the chafer's sprite Weaves a bower in endless night. The caterpillar on the leaf Repeats to thee thy mother's grief. Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the last judgement draweth nigh. He who shall train the horse to war Shall never pass the polar bar. The beggar's dog and widow's cat, Feed them and thou wilt grow fat. The gnat that sings his summer's song Poison gets from slander's tongue. The poison of the snake and newt Is the sweat of envy's foot. The poison of the honey bee Is the artist's jealousy. The prince's robes and beggar's rags Are toadstools on the miser's bags. A truth that's told with bad intent Beats all the lies you can invent. It is right it should be so; Man was made for joy and woe; And when this we rightly know, Thro' the world we safely go. Joy and woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine. Under every grief and pine Runs a joy with silken twine. The babe is more than swaddling bands; Every farmer understands. Every tear from every eye Becomes a babe in eternity; This is caught by females bright, And return'd to its own delight. The bleat, the bark, bellow, and roar, Are waves that beat on heaven's shore. The babe that weeps the rod beneath Writes revenge in realms of death. The beggar's rags, fluttering in air, Does to rags the heavens tear. The soldier, arm'd with sword and gun, Palsied strikes the summer's sun. The poor man's farthing is worth more Than all the gold on Afric's shore. One mite wrung from the lab'rer's hands Shall buy and sell the miser's lands; Or, if protected from on high, Does that whole nation sell and buy. He who mocks the infant's faith Shall be mock'd in age and death. He who shall teach the child to doubt The rotting grave shall ne'er get out. He who respects the infant's faith Triumphs over hell and death. The child's toys and the old man's reasons Are the fruits of the two seasons. The questioner, who sits so sly, Shall never know how to reply. He who replies to words of doubt Doth put the light of knowledge out. The strongest poison ever known Came from Caesar's laurel crown. Nought can deform the human race Like to the armour's iron brace. When gold and gems adorn the plow, To peaceful arts shall envy bow. A riddle, or the cricket's cry, Is to doubt a fit reply. The emmet's inch and eagle's mile Make lame philosophy to smile. He who doubts from what he sees Will ne'er believe, do what you please. If the sun and moon should doubt, They'd immediately go out. To be in a passion you good may do, But no good if a passion is in you. The whore and gambler, by the state Licensed, build that nation's fate. The harlot's cry from street to street Shall weave old England's winding-sheet. The winner's shout, the loser's curse, Dance before dead England's hearse. Every night and every morn Some to misery are born, Every morn and every night Some are born to sweet delight. Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night. We are led to believe a lie When we see not thro' the eye, Which was born in a night to perish in a night, When the soul slept in beams of light. God appears, and God is light, To those poor souls who dwell in night; But does a human form display To those who dwell in realms of day. |
THE BAIT - John Donne
COME live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove Of golden sands, and crystal brooks, With silken lines and silver hooks. There will the river whisp'ring run Warm'd by thy eyes, more than the sun ; And there th' enamour'd fish will stay, Begging themselves they may betray. When thou wilt swim in that live bath, Each fish, which every channel hath, Will amorously to thee swim, Gladder to catch thee, than thou him. If thou, to be so seen, be'st loth, By sun or moon, thou dark'nest both, And if myself have leave to see, I need not their light, having thee. Let others freeze with angling reeds, And cut their legs with shells and weeds, Or treacherously poor fish beset, With strangling snare, or windowy net. Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest The bedded fish in banks out-wrest ; Or curious traitors, sleeve-silk flies, Bewitch poor fishes' wand'ring eyes. For thee, thou need'st no such deceit, For thou thyself art thine own bait : That fish, that is not catch'd thereby, Alas ! is wiser far than I. |
I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud
by William Wordsworth I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Out-did the sparkling leaves in glee; A poet could not be but gay, In such a jocund company! I gazed—and gazed—but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. |
Philip Larkin - This Be The Verse
They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another's throats. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, And don't have any kids yourself. |
She Walks in Beauty (George Gordon, Lord Byron)
SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that 's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent! |
http://i.telegraph.co.uk/multimedia/...d_1468743i.jpg PICTURE IT NOW Frogs by Louis Simpson The storm broke, and it rained, And water rose in the pool, And frogs hopped into the gutter, With their skins of yellow and green, And just their eyes shining above the surface Of the warm solution of slime. At night, when fire flies trace Light-lines between the trees and flowers Exhaling perfume, The frogs speak to each other In rhythm. The sound is monstrous, But their voices are filled with satisfaction. In the city I pine for the country; In the country I long for conversation— Our happy croaking. |
Rising by Eve Ensler
RISING
Written in Kerala for the women of India who lead the way This could have been anywhere And was Mexico City Manila Mumbai Manhattan Nighttime men waiting like wolves Drooling for prey behind that single dimly painted door paying nothing a couple of dollars or euros rupees or pesos to have her Enter her Eat her Devour her and throw away her bones. This could have been anywhere And was A Buddhist nun on a bus Trying to stay dry for the night A woman leader speaking out against The repressive government A young woman traveling with her boyfriend One lost her voice The other her following The last one her life This could have been anywhere and was Pink wooden crosses A stack of stones Red wilting carnations Empty chairs in a square Ribbons flying in a sultry wind I ask Anna Nighat Kamla Monique Tanisha Emily Why Why Porque Eran Mujeres Parce qu'elles étaient des femmes Because they were women Because they were women This could have been anywhere And was Where she got fired for being too beautiful Fined for drinking after she was raped A serious offer to marry her rapist Got told it was legitimate but not forcible This could have been anywhere They do such a thing When the girls go for fire wood Step into the lonely man’s car Drink a little too much at the college party Wake up with her uncle’s fingers inside Run from the screaming machete and guns Be taken at sunrise Get a bullet in the brain for learning the alphabet Be stoned for falling in love Be burned for seeing the future I am done Cataloguing these horrors Data Porn 2 million women raped and tortured 1 out of 3 women a woman raped every minute every second one out of 2 one out of 5 the same one one one I am done counting And recounting Its time to tell a new story It needs to be our story It needs to be outrageous and unexpected It needs to lose control in the middle It needs to be sexy and in our hips And our feet It needs to be angry and a little scary the way storms can be scary It needs to not ask permission Or get permits or set up offices Or make salaries It wont be recorded or bought or sold Or counted It needs to just happen It is not a question of inventing But remembering Buried under the leaves of trauma and sorrow Beneath the river of semen and squalor vaginas and labias shredded and extracted stolen body mines mined bodies It is not about asking now Or waiting It is about rising Raise your arm my sister my brother Raise your one Billion Your one heart Your one of us I used to be afraid of love It hurt too much What never happened What got ripped away The rape The wound And love I thought was salt But I was wrong I was wrong Step into the fire Raise your arm Raise your one Billion One One One Rising. Rising. Rising. Eve Ensler for One Billion Rising |
Romantics by Lisel Mueller Johannes Brahms and Clara Schumann The modern biographers worry "how far it went," their tender friendship. They wonder just what it means when he writes he thinks of her constantly, his guardian angel, beloved friend. The modern biographers ask the rude, irrelevant question of our age, as if the event of two bodies meshing together establishes the degree of love, forgetting how softly Eros walked in the nineteenth century, how a hand held overlong or a gaze anchored in someone's eyes could unseat a heart, and nuances of address, not known in our egalitarian language could make the redolent air tremble and shimmer with the heat of possibility. Each time I hear the Intermezzi, sad and lavish in their tenderness, I imagine the two of them sitting in a garden among late-blooming roses and dark cascades of leaves, letting the landscape speak for them, leaving nothing to overhear. |
This is unfinished... the last thing Shelley ever wrote. He is one of my favorite poets, who dared to tackle political issues of his day and also describe the softer things in life. Music when Soft Voices Die (To --) BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory— Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Are heaped for the belovèd's bed; And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on. |
Bees and Morning Glories by John Ciardi Morning glories, pale as a mist drying, fade from the heat of the day, but already hunchback bees in pirate pants and with peg-leg hooks have found and are boarding them. This could do for the sack of the imaginary fleet. The raiders loot the galleons even as they one by one vanish and leave still real only what has been snatched out of the spell. I've never seen bees more purposeful except when the hive is threatened. They know the good of it must be grabbed and hauled before the whole feast wisps off. They swarm in light and, fast, dive in, then drone out, slow, their pantaloons heavy with gold and sunlight. The line of them, like thin smoke, wafts over the hedge. And back again to find the fleet gone. Well, they got this day's good of it. Off they cruise to what stays open longer. Nothing green gives honey. And by now you'd have to look twice to see more than green where all those white sails trembled when the world was misty and open and the prize was there to be taken. |
All The Hemispheres
Leave the familiar for a while. Let your senses and bodies stretch out Like a welcomed season Onto the meadows and shores and hills. Open up the roof. Make a new water-mark on your excitement And love. Like a blooming night flower, Bestow your vital fragrance of happiness And giving Upon our intimate assembly. Change rooms in your mind for a day. All the hemispheres in existence Lie beside an equator In your heart. Greet yourself In your thousand other forms As you mount the hidden tide and travel Back home. All the hemispheres in heaven Are sitting around a fire Chatting. While stitching themselves together Into the Great Circle inside of You. ~ Hafiz of Shiraz |
Adolescence by P. K. Page
In love they wore themselves in a green embrace. A silken rain fell through the spring upon them. In the park she fed the swans and he whittled nervously with his strange hands. And white was mixed with all their colours as if they drew it from the flowering trees. At night his two finger whistle brought her down the waterfall stairs to his shy smile which like an eddy, turned her round and round lazily and slowly so her will was nowhere—as in dreams things are and aren’t. Walking along avenues in the dark street lamps sang like sopranos in their heads with a violence they never understood and all their movements when they were together had no conclusion. Only leaning into the question had they motion; after they parted were savage and swift as gulls. asking and asking the hostile emptiness they were as sharp as partly sculptured stone and all who watched, forgetting, were amazed to see them form and fade before their eyes. |
If I could have just one wish,
I would wish to wake up everyday to the sound of your breath on my neck, the warmth of your lips on my cheek, the touch of your fingers on my skin, and the feel of your heart beating with mine... Knowing that I could never find that feeling with anyone other than you. - Courtney Kuchta - |
The Key to Everything
Is there anything I can do or has everything been done or do you prefer somebody else to do it or don’t you trust me to do it right or is it hopeless and no one can do a thing or do you suppose I don’t really want to do it and am just saying that or don’t you hear me at all or what? You’re waiting for the right person the doctor or the nurse the father or the mother or the person with the name you keep mumbling in your sleep that no one ever heard of there’s no one named that really except yourself maybe if I knew what your name was I’d prove it’s your own name spelled backwards or twisted in some way the one you keep mumbling but you won’t tell me your name or don’t you know it yourself that’s it of course you’ve forgotten or never quite knew it or weren’t willing to believe it Then there is something I can do I can find your name for you that’s the key to everything once you’d repeat it clearly you’d come awake you’d get up and walk knowing where you’re going where you came from And you’d love me after that or would you hate me? no once you’d get there you’d remember and love me of course I’d be gone by then I’d be far away by May Swenson |
How Falling in Love is like Owning a Dog
by Taylor Mali First of all, it’s a big responsibility, especially in a city like New York. So think long and hard before deciding on love. On the other hand, love gives you a sense of security: when you’re walking down the street late at night and you have a leash on love ain’t no one going to mess with you. Because crooks and muggers think love is unpredictable. Who knows what love could do in its own defense? On cold winter nights, love is warm. It lies between you and lives and breathes and makes funny noises. Love wakes you up all hours of the night with its needs. It needs to be fed so it will grow and stay healthy. Love doesn’t like being left alone for long. But come home and love is always happy to see you. It may break a few things accidentally in its passion for life, but you can never be mad at love for long. Is love good all the time? No! No! Love can be bad. Bad, love, bad! Very bad love. Love makes messes. Love leaves you little surprises here and there. Love needs lots of cleaning up after. Somethimes you just want to get love fixed. Sometimes you want to roll up a piece of newspaper and swat love on the nose, not so much to cause pain, just to let love know Don’t you ever do that again! Sometimes love just wants to go out for a nice long walk. Because love loves exercise. It will run you around the block and leave you panting, breathless. Pull you in different directions at once, or wind itself around and around you until you’re all wound up and you cannot move. But love makes you meet people wherever you go. People who have nothing in common but love stop and talk to each other on the street. Throw things away and love will bring them back, again, and again, and again. But most of all, love needs love, lots of it. And in return, love loves you and never stops. Taylor Mali |
Being This
I imagine your smallness
has been the culprit of writing unintended invitations to late night subway riders and overly confident men I worry about it if I'm being honest and if I'm being that allow me then to be this I am this boy who hears the closeness of the words worrier and warrior all the while knowing it's you who have made me both of these things I am a blade skinning a stone I am a stone afraid of water I am water boxing fire I am fire suffocating and if I am all of those allow me then to be this I am this boy kidnapping your smile and ransoming it back to you for briefcases full of unmarked hand holding come alone and no funny business I can tell the difference between a briefcase full of hand holding and one full of foot massages. ~ Shane Koyczan |
I woke up around 3 and couldn't fall back to sleep so I amused myself by rereading much loved poetry. I stumbled on this long forgotten gem and saved it to post this morning:
The Drunk Is Gender-Free By Leonard Cohen This morning I woke up again I thank my Lord for that The world is such a pigpen That I have to wear a hat I love the Lord I praise the Lord I do the Lord forgive I hope I won’t be sorry For allowing Him to live I know you like to get me drunk And laugh at what I say I’m very happy that you do I’m thirsty every day I’m angry with the angel Who pinched me on the thigh And made me fall in love With every woman passing by I know they are your sisters Your daughters mothers wives If I have left a woman out Then I apologize It’s fun to run to heaven When you’re off the beaten track The Lord is such a monkey when You’ve got Him on your back The Lord is such a monkey He’s such a woman too Such a place of nothing Such a face of you May E crash into your temple And look out thru’ your eyes And make you fall in love With everybody you despise |
Dedicated to bachelorette Desiree's choice this season, Chris Siegfried, who really should try silence over poetry.
Gift by Leonard Cohen You tell me that silence is nearer to peace than poems but if for my gift I brought you silence (for I know silence) you would say This is not silence this is another poem and you would hand it back to me |
Introduction To Poetry
Billy Collins I ask them to take a poem and hold it up to the light like a color slide or press an ear against its hive. I say drop a mouse into a poem and watch him probe his way out, or walk inside the poem's room and feel the walls for a light switch. I want them to waterski across the surface of a poem waving at the author's name on the shore. But all they want to do is tie the poem to a chair with rope and torture a confession out of it. They begin beating it with a hose to find out what it really means. |
One Woman by Ron Carlson Oh, the old love song again and again devotion and desire without end, a woman half dressed somewhere and being admired, or dressed and being admired. These men go off alone into their rooms and write it down: she was this and she was that. Every man says she's the woman above all, on a pedestal, though no one says pedestal, that would be crazy, and there's a thousand of these poems, and by that I mean a million declarations of this singular love of this one of a kind woman, so rare, an absolute phenomenon which many times rivals the moon or the oceans, or the wind in the trees or night or any of the furniture of night or day. You see what I mean: big unknowable things. What are we to make of it? This: it's true. Each man is telling the truth. Each woman puts all the other women second. It's the way. The strap of her gown off her shoulder, and the paradox prevails. These poems are all true. Each woman stands alone in the doorway or on the pedestal in the perfect light. |
My Favorite Poem Of All Time
i carry your heart with me
e. e. cummings i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling) i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true) and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant and whatever a sun will always sing is you here is the deepest secret nobody knows (here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) |
http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2011/...78_964x618.jpg Virgil's Bees by Carol Ann Duffy Bless air's gift of sweetness, honey from the bees, inspired by clover, marigold, eucalyptus, thyme, the hundred perfumes of the wind. Bless the beekeeper who chooses for her hives a site near water, violet beds, no yew, no echo. Let the light lilt, leak, green or gold, pigment for queens, and joy be inexplicable but there in harmony of willowherb and stream, of summer heat and breeze, each bee's body at its brilliant flower, lover-stunned, strumming on fragrance, smitten. |
Something I found ridiculously beautiful:
THE END by Victoria Redel At the end of the marriage they lay down on their big, exhausted bed. It was crowded with all the men and women they had ever loved. Of course their fathers and mothers were there and a boy in uniform she'd kissed on a stairwell. His first wife spooned her first husband. Ridiculous Affair held hands with Stupendous Infatuation. There was a racket of dreaming and, though both were tired from the difficult end and in need of sleep, neither could sleep, so they began telling each other the long, good story of their love. She was wearing the red dress. The white boat hitched to the wood dock filled with rainwater. The swans were again teaching the young to fly. The story went out to nice dinners, took summer holidays, and by the time they were done, the old loves rolled over in a jumble on the floor, and, because this is what they knew to do well with one another, they made love, and then without thinking it was the last time, said, I love you, and fell asleep under the heavy, blue coverlet. "The End" by Victoria Redel, from Woman Without Umbrella. © Four Way Books, 2012. Reprinted with without permission |
LEGS
LEGS
by Joseph Harker A man walks into the cafe on a Pair Of Legs. These are the kind of legs that demand metaphor: legs drifting in like the masts of capsized ships, legs like walnut saplings in the churchyard. What is it about a pair of legs that enchants a person? Or any body part: for he also has arms, knuckles, upper lip, cropped nape, but it’s the legs that get me. His legs resist like longbows. Running shorts show one bronze, fresh-mowed leg with Hebrew tracery tattooed round the thigh. What’s “nice legs” in Hebrew? How do you compliment a stranger’s legs without sounding strange? I know the legs of women are up for constant debate, the apparition of their legs traded on the commodities market by leg-men whistling as they dig the street, knowing good legs and thinking they’ve something to prove. Legs, though, have never inspired me until These Legs. I was never a vulgar leg-admirer hooting at the passerby. Can one man worship the legs of another, lay kisses on the saintly knees? And why couldn’t legs be that once-in-a-lifetime quality? Well-legged can mean marriageable. Good legs make men dependable, worldly, and these legs could be wandering monuments, sculptural as they are. I feel I am discovering legs for the first time. I’m seeing legs, legs, suddenly I am judging everyone by the curve of their legs, sitting here shaking at the injustice of subpar legs, of overgrown and shapeless legs milling about this man with Dead Sea Legs as he stands, stretches, pays for his coffee, scratches his one tattooed leg, that alphabet leg!, flexing and spinning him away like a gyroscope, out the door, his Legs gone and him gone with them. "LEGS" by Joseph Harker reprinted without permission from his blog Naming Constellations entry dated 7/19/2013 -----please see: http://creativecommons.org/licenses/...3.0/deed.en_US ----- (I'll note that the writer claims he wrote this one for fun and tried to fit the word leg(s) into every line) |
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The Sky
The Sky
Holding the sky above our heads, separating it from the earth - it's an important job and someone has to do it. Only the most reliable and aspiring souls are given such employment. Their task to make us feel that something must be up there, beyond beyond, cloaked in white or grey or blue. Distracted by the birds, the agitation of the topmost twigs, the souls ache. Ache from the pressure of the sky reprinted without permission, poetry by Moniza Alzi This poem is taken from PN Review 141, Volume 28 Number 1, September - October 2001 |
Rule 15
Rule 15
what bothers you of course beyond the smudges on your own window isn’t so much the yuppies with their walking poles walking down your street but the fact that they’re not even using them she just holds hers both in one hand and he’s sort of dragging his behind him leaving two scratched lines down the sandy springtime sidewalk here’s what I’d do pull the wine from the cupboard pour yourself a bucket and head out to the porch where you can criticize more clearly reprinted without permission, poetry by Ryan Vine This poem is taken from Paper Darts Magazine Published on DateTuesday, September 11, 2012 |
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