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Poetry Please start one thread for your own poetry and just add to it! |
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There’s a sort of eternity
when we’re in bed together whether silently you awaken me with the flat of your hand or sleep breathing with a small scratch in your throat, or quietly attach a bird to the sky I dream as a way in to my body— Now you have made me excited to accept heaven as an idea inside us, perpetual waters, because you let yourself fall from a sky you invented to a sea I vaulted when it was small rain accumulating—My heart drained there and fills now in time to sketch in the entire desert landscape we remember as an ocean port, that part of me accepting your trust, a deep voluptuous thrust into my hours, that has no earthly power but lives in believing you were made for me to give in to completely, every entry into you the lip of water that is in itself scant hope broken into like sleep by kisses—Policed in the desert by a shooting star, we are the subversive love scratched out of the sky, o my visitor. ~ Jane Miller |
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#2 |
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I will love you.
And you will have no say in the matter. You will be sitting reading. I will step through the wall and take you by the ears. Gold Latin will come out of your mouth. Years will pass. We will be old. I will have loved you, against my nature, no other being worthy, thrown as I am on my own powers, alone there. And as we sit together reading you will say “Did you really love me?” And I will be terrified. -Stan Rice |
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They say that 'Time assuages'
by Emily Dickinson They say that "Time assuages"— Time never did assuage— An actual suffering strengthens As Sinews do, with age— Time is a Test of Trouble— But not a Remedy— If such it prove, it prove too There was no Malady— |
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Sympathy
by Paul Laurence Dunbar I know what the caged bird feels, alas! When the sun is bright on the upland slopes; When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass, And the river flows like a stream of glass; When the first bird sings and the first bud opes, And the faint perfume from its chalice steals— I know what the caged bird feels! I know why the caged bird beats its wing Till its blood is red on the cruel bars; For he must fly back to his perch and cling When he fain would be on the bough a-swing; And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars And they pulse again with a keener sting— I know why he beats his wing! I know why the caged bird sings, ah me, When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,— When he beats his bars and he would be free; It is not a carol of joy or glee, But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core, But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings— I know why the caged bird sings! |
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New Year's
by Dana Gioia Let other mornings honor the miraculous. Eternity has festivals enough. This is the feast of our mortality, The most mundane and human holiday. On other days we misinterpret time, Pretending that we live the present moment. But can this blur, this smudgy in-between, This tiny fissure where the future drips Into the past, this flyspeck we call now Be our true habitat? The present is The leaky palm of water that we skim From the swift, silent river slipping by. The new year always brings us what we want Simply by bringing us along—to see A calendar with every day uncrossed, A field of snow without a single footprint. |
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#6 |
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And somewhere,
inside the usual grammar of morning, between all the shortest syllables of clock ring & water boil egg tap & salt shake you discover you are this body that loves her Even though your finest words are gone leaving only the smallest bones the metatarsals the humble feet of your love to beat out their passions on two rough heels It happens here over tea, sun shoots one flawless arrow across the tip of your spoon and into hers -the way she looks up over the rim of her cup one green eye, then two & suddenly all four corners of your world meet here; in the central moon of your saucer perfect alchemy and it is then that you swap the ordinary floss of morning for a glimpse of what the love of this body will be ~ Chaia Heller |
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![]() A Beautiful Stranger At a mirror, naked, pleasing to herself You really were pretty; let that moment last. The rose-brown shield of your breasts, A belly with a black tuft just recently grown. And they would dress you immediately in languishing Blouses, slips, wispy robes with trains. You wore a corset in a fashionable shade of lilac, On your thighs garters like the straps on armor. They hung on you layers of ridiculous fabrics So that you could take part in their theater of pretended ecstasies, smutty allusions. A slave; and such you remained in the photograph Dimmed by emulsion and the coloring of time. Did you rebel? Yes, it is quite possible. To know for yourself, not to tell anybody And from the nothingness of their words, To protect the wisdom of your mocking body. And I; am I now liberated from those rituals, masks, the floodlights of the ball? Have I escaped the law that draws me into frozen fashions, half-dead manners? I would like to save you, beautiful stranger. Together we depart for eternal meadows. You are naked again, and fifteen years old. I take you by the hand, your promised one. Think that nothing will happen to you That was suppose to happen, That you can be different, That you are your own, And not arrested by the exactness of fate. Czeslaw Milosz
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“In the end, it’s not about how much stuff you have, it’s about how many hearts you touched,” — Iva Ursano.
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