...~* Poetry from my heart of hearts *~...

[Kätzchen]

Le Fragrance du Jour

I’ve been on my own for far too long,
Not that this is what I prefer –
It is just the way the ‘cards’ were seemingly dealt:
Even if I wanted to melt
It would take careful timing,
Diligence of mind,
Deliberately applied and felt.

Today, as I make my way into the world,
I stand before my closet –
Scanning my wardrobe, left to right:
Sweaters begin on the left,
Migrating toward the middle of night wear;
Then Slips, garters, stockings and skirts,
Dresses made for a Cascadian night.

Lifting, teasing out, sorting colors I feel akin to,
Holding them close before me –
I decide if I should try them on:
Slipping one on, then relieved
Over and over again, I go
Kinesthetically, making conscious choices,
Until a perfection of fit - has been achieved.

Thus is the fragrance of life that I live by,
Not entirely on my own –
I seek that which is most likely to send these vibrations:
With deep need for me
My desire is to make you groan,
Sated only by your ability
That causes me to moan.

~LDS

(24, November, 2009)

[Kätzchen]

Some poetry that I have written over the years...
I thought I would leave a few of them here tonight.

Beneath the Winter Snow

Every season brings its change:
Spring with its scented rain,
Summer with its incredible sunshine; and
Fall with its leaves of glory, conveying earths strain.

Whilst all previous seasonal changes exemplify change,
Winter gives a promise: the promise of undying hope --
The hope that buried priori will reveal its passionate syrup,
Bubbling in its crucible; dangling by a rope.

Laden in the throws of effervescent primordial epiphany,
Your Star leads me through the darkness of night.
Hallowed by the presence of an eerily shrouded Moon
My eyes dimly see: refractions of your prismatic light.

Buried in my heart of hearts is the seed of Your love:
Encased by coldness, the crucible engenders its glow;
Melting, metaphorical seasonal changes: galvanized-
Beneath the Winter Snow.

LDS
(9th, November, 2007)

An Exercise in Abstract Puzzle Theory

How practical is it,

When the obsession of your mind

Exists only in the shadows?

Who’s half blind?

Will the fruit of your efforts

Personify the kiss of a stone-cold,

Calculated flame, meant to burn?

Adding exacted guilt?

In the hours it takes to comply

Work must be done on the fly,

Wander then delay, purposely with precision;

Relief, again, will come during the Fall rotation,

With a round-like Key: on the by-and-by.

LDS

(25th, January, 2008)

Ode to Billy Bob

You thought you would weaken me
Being all brazen with your `tude
How dare you strut like that
‘come taste the mood’.

I raise the ambiance
To titillate you back
Inviting you to try on my love
Don’t gorge, just snack.

I lift my dress a smidge
And adjust my garter and hose
Careful to take in the effect
I lean over and kiss your nose.

Your hands held my face
Your tongue sent me into throws
could it be your magic
really curls my toes???

Taking off my rings
And stroking gently my wandering curls
I see you weakening
Cuz i’m not just one of those ‘girls’.

Billy Bob, you keep that up
I like you just like that
You lead, I will follow
Thanks ~ Your Playful Pussy Cat.

LDS
(10th, July, 2006)

Words

my dress fits in a loose way
but your hand will never lose it's direction or impact
night or day.

the Bear in You manifests like a dare
will I shed my dress?
With your help, I stand bare.

Standing still like a deer caught in your gaze
yes Dear, I am smitten
by the energy of your haze.

My Femme energy may seem Coy
but as i slide through your legz
You realise, I am a sensual Koi.

LDS
(27th, August, 2006)

[chefhottie25]

Originally Posted by ALovelyKiss

Some poetry that I have written over the years...
I thought I would leave a few of them here tonight.

Beneath the Winter Snow

Every season brings its change:
Spring with its scented rain,
Summer with its incredible sunshine; and
Fall with its leaves of glory, conveying earths strain.

Whilst all previous seasonal changes exemplify change,
Winter gives a promise: the promise of undying hope --
The hope that buried priori will reveal its passionate syrup,
Bubbling in its crucible; dangling by a rope.

Laden in the throws of effervescent primordial epiphany,
Your Star leads me through the darkness of night.
Hallowed by the presence of an eerily shrouded Moon
My eyes dimly see: refractions of your prismatic light.

Buried in my heart of hearts is the seed of Your love:
Encased by coldness, the crucible engenders its glow;
Melting, metaphorical seasonal changes: galvanized-
Beneath the Winter Snow.

LDS
(9th, November, 2007)

An Exercise in Abstract Puzzle Theory

How practical is it,

When the obsession of your mind

Exists only in the shadows?

Who’s half blind?

Will the fruit of your efforts

Personify the kiss of a stone-cold,

Calculated flame, meant to burn?

Adding exacted guilt?

In the hours it takes to comply

Work must be done on the fly,

Wander then delay, purposely with precision;

Relief, again, will come during the Fall rotation,

With a round-like Key: on the by-and-by.

LDS

(25th, January, 2008)

Ode to Billy Bob

You thought you would weaken me
Being all brazen with your `tude
How dare you strut like that
‘come taste the mood’.

I raise the ambiance
To titillate you back
Inviting you to try on my love
Don’t gorge, just snack.

I lift my dress a smidge
And adjust my garter and hose
Careful to take in the effect
I lean over and kiss your nose.

Your hands held my face
Your tongue sent me into throws
could it be your magic
really curls my toes???

Taking off my rings
And stroking gently my wandering curls
I see you weakening
Cuz i’m not just one of those ‘girls’.

Billy Bob, you keep that up
I like you just like that
You lead, I will follow
Thanks ~ Your Playful Pussy Cat.

LDS
(10th, July, 2006)

Words

my dress fits in a loose way
but your hand will never lose it's direction or impact
night or day.

the Bear in You manifests like a dare
will I shed my dress?
With your help, I stand bare.

Standing still like a deer caught in your gaze
yes Dear, I am smitten
by the energy of your haze.

My Femme energy may seem Coy
but as i slide through your legz
You realise, I am a sensual Koi.

LDS
(27th, August, 2006)

i really like your poem "words"

[Kätzchen]

I'm taking a small break this morning (while having some breakfast) and I wanted to leave 2 poems today that mean a lot to me. I have long adored the works of (1) Czeslaw Milosz and recently, I have begun to learn more about a wonderful Romanian poet - (2) Nichita Stãnescu.


Burned Forest
~ Nichita Stãnescu

Black snow was falling. The tree line
shone when I turned to see -
I had wondered long and silent,
alone, trailing memory behind me.

And it seemed the stars, fixed as they were,
ground their teeth, a stiffened nexus,
an infernal machine, tolling
the halted hours of conciousness.

Then, a thick silence descends,
and my every gesture
leaves a comet tail in the heavens.

And I hear evey glance I cast
as it echoes against
some tree.

Child, what were you seeking there,
with your gangly arms and pointed shoulders
on which the wings were barely dry -
black snow drifting in the evening sky.

A horizon howling, far from view,
darting its tongues and anthracite,
dragged me forever down the mute row,
my body, half naked, sliding from sight.

In distances of smoke the town afire,
blazing beneath the planes, a frigid pyre.
We two, forest, what did we do?
Why did they burn you, forest, in a toga of ash -
and the moon no longer passes over you?

From the book "Bas-Relief with Heroes"
english translation by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru.


How It Was

~ Czeslaw Milosz

Stalking a deer I wandered deep into the mountains and from there I saw.

Or perhaps it was for some other reason that I rose above the setting sun.

Above the hills of blackwood and a slab of ocean and the steps of a glacier, carmine-colored in the dusk.

I saw absence; the mighty power of counter-fulfillment; the penalty of a promise lost forever.

If, in tepees of plywood, tire shreds, and grimy sheet iron, ancient inhabitants of this land shook their rattles, it was all in vain.

No eagle-creator circled in the air from which the thunderbolt of its glory had been cast out.

Protective spirits hid themselves in subterranean beds of bubbling ore, jolting the surface from time to time so that the fabric of freeways was bursting asunder.

God the Father didn’t walk about any longer tending the new shoots of a cedar, no longer did man hear his rushing spirit.

His son did not know his sonship and turned his eyes away when passing by a neon cross flat as a movie screen showing a striptease.

This time it was really the end of the Old and the New Testament.

No one implored, everyone picked up a nodule of agate or diorite to whisper in loneliness: I cannot live any longer.

Bearded messengers in bead necklaces founded clandestine communes in imperial cities and in ports overseas.

But none of them announced the birth of a child-savior.

Soldiers from expeditions sent to punish nations would go disguised and masked to take part in forbidden rites, not looking for any hope.

They inhaled smoke soothing all memory and, rocking from side to side, shared with each other a word of nameless union.

Carved in black wood the Wheel of Eternal Return stood before the tents of wandering monastic orders.

And those who longed for the Kingdom took refuge like me in the mountains to become the last heirs of a dishonored myth.

[Kätzchen]

As I was walking today, I found a poem that was left on the trunk of a tree - the tree was absolutely gorgeous and of course, the leaves on trees, around here, are beginning to change.


Trees

I think that I shall never see
A poem as lovely as a tree,
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast.
A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray,
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair.
Upon whose bosom snow has lain
Who intimately lives with rain,
Poems are made by fools like me
But only God can make a tree.

~ Joyce Kilmer
(words used by permission of Aline Kilmer)

[Kätzchen]

It's been a long while since I've written anything - prose or poetry - but I've been experiencing a lot of change in my life this past year. I am not sure how others deal with change in their lives, but since I have been through so many threshold experiences, I think the poetic side of my brain is broken (for the moment).

Well, maybe in time, things will change, yes?


Anyway, recently I was at Powell's Book store and I picked a book off the stand to browse through and it was a book of Anne Sexton's poetry. I found this poem and it spoke to my heart...



Letter Written on a Ferry While Crossing Long Island Sound

by Anne Sexton




I am surprised to see
that the ocean is still going on.
Now I am going back
and I have ripped my hand
from your hand as I said I would
and I have made it this far
as I said I would
and I am on the top deck now
holding my wallet, my cigarettes
and my car keys
at 2 o’clock on a Tuesday
in August of 1960.

Dearest,
although everything has happened,
nothing has happened.
The sea is very old.
The sea is the face of Mary,
without miracles or rage
or unusual hope,
grown rough and wrinkled
with incurable age.

Still,
I have eyes.
These are my eyes:
the orange letters that spell
ORIENT on the life preserver
that hangs by my knees;
the cement lifeboat that wears
its dirty canvas coat;
the faded sign that sits on its shelf
saying KEEP OFF.
Oh, all right, I say,
I’ll save myself.

Over my right shoulder
I see four nuns
who sit like a bridge club,
their faces poked out
from under their habits,
as good as good babies who
have sunk into their carriages.
Without discrimination
the wind pulls the skirts
of their arms.
Almost undressed,
I see what remains:
that holy wrist,
that ankle,
that chain.

Oh God,
although I am very sad,
could you please
let these four nuns
loosen from their leather boots
and their wooden chairs
to rise out
over this greasy deck,
out over this iron rail,
nodding their pink heads to one side,
flying four abreast
in the old-fashioned side stroke;
each mouth open and round,
breathing together
as fish do,
singing without sound.

Dearest,
see how my dark girls sally forth,
over the passing lighthouse of Plum Gut,
its shell as rusty
as a camp dish,
as fragile as a pagoda
on a stone;
out over the little lighthouse
that warns me of drowning winds
that rub over its blind bottom
and its blue cover;
winds that will take the toes
and the ears of the rider
or the lover.

There go my dark girls,
their dresses puff
in the leeward air.
Oh, they are lighter than flying dogs
or the breath of dolphins;
each mouth opens gratefully,
wider than a milk cup.
My dark girls sing for this.
They are going up.
See them rise
on black wings, drinking
the sky, without smiles
or hands
or shoes.
They call back to us
from the gauzy edge of paradise,
good news, good news.





Anne Sexton, “Letter Written on a Ferry While Crossing Long Island Sound” from The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1981). Copyright © 1981 by Linda Gray Sexton and Loring Conant, Jr. Reprinted with the permission of Sterling Lord Literistic, Inc.

Source: The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1981)

[Kätzchen]

(The poem below is one of many that I like very much by Czeslaw Milosz)


Bells in Winter

~C. Milosz

Riding out of Transylvanian mountains,
Through primeval forest and Carpathian ridge,
At nightfall, once, halting at the edge
Of a fording place (my companions
Had sent me to find the way), I dismounted,
And setting my horse to graze, unstrapped
The Holy Scriptures and read, rapt
By the Letters of Paul—at once I was granted
Such a gift from the rushing stream
And light of the setting sun's fire,
That the sight of evening's first star
Lulled me into a powerful dream.
A young man in ornate Greek attire
Touched my hand and said—“Time
For mortals runs like water. I've probed
Its depth to the very bottom.
In Corinth Paul rebuked me, for I robbed
My father of his wife; he barred me from
The common table of my brethren.
Since then I've been exiled from the horde
Of Saints, all these years my love of sin
Led me, poor plaything, floored
By temptation—to satisfy demands
Of eternal Damnation. But from the slime
My Lord and God, unknown that time,
Tore me with a lightning flash.
Your truths amount to nothing in his hands;
His mercy saves all living flesh.”

Awakened under the great starry skies,
Surprised by this help unexpected,
My former cares now trifles rejected,
I wiped with a kerchief my moist eyes.

I've never journeyed to Transylvania.
I didn't bring back messages to my church.
But I could have.
This is an exercise in stylistics.
The pluperfect tense
Of imperfective countries.

Instead I will tell you something that hasn't been fabricated.
The tiny street almost opposite the university
Is really called Literary Lane.
On the corner, a bookstore but no books, just drafts and sheets
Heaped to the ceiling. Unbound, tied with string,
Printed and handwritten—Latin, Cyrillic,
Hebrew letters. More than a hundred, three hundred years.
They must have been worth a fortune.
From this bookshop another could be seen,
Similar, almost facing it,
Identical proprietors: faded bears,
Long gabardine caftans, reddened eyelids.
Unchanged since the year Napoleon passed through.
Nothing has changed here. The privilege of stones?
They are that way and like it. Beyond the second shop
The lane curves along a wall, passes a house
In which a poet, famous in our city,
Wrote a tale about a Princess named Grazyna.
Right by a wooden gate with studs
Huge as fists. Under the vault, on the right,
Stairs smelling of paint, where I live.
Not that I would have picked Literary Lane,
It just happened, there was a room for rent,
With a low ceiling and a bay window, a wide oak bed,
And a stove that heated the raw winter,
Consuming logs brought from the hall
By the old servant, Alzbieta.

There doesn't seem to be any reason—
For I soon went farther way than any road
Through woods or mountains could reach—
To think about that room over here.

Yet I am one of those who believe in Apokatastasis,
A word that promises returning movement,
Not what is fixed in Katastasis,
And appears in Acts 3,21.

It means: Restoration. This was believed by Gregory of Nyssa,
Johannes Scotus Erigena, Ruysbroeck, and William Blake.

Thus each thing, for me, has a dual existence,
Both in time and when time shall no longer be.

And so one morning, in biting frost
And cold drizzle, in a dreamlike gray mist,
The air suffused with crimson light
Turning snow banks rosy, and streets made slick by runners,
Smoke and puffy steam, sledges clanging, jingling,
Horses coated with hoarfrost, each hair distance.
Then bells—from Saint John's,
The Berardines', Saint Casimir's,
The Cathedral's, The Missionaries',
Saint George's, The Dominicans',
Saint Nicholas', Saint Jacob's.
So many bells. As if all hands pulling ropes
Were erecting a solemn edifice above the city.

So Alzbieta, wrapped in her kerchief, would go to morning mass.
For a long time I've thought about the life of Alzbieta,
I could count the years but I prefer not to.
What are years, if I see the snow and her tiny shoes,
Funny, pointed, fastened on the side.
And I'm the same, though the conceit of the body
Begins and ends.

Once again chubby angels blast heir golden trumpets.
And the stoop-shouldered priest in his chasuble,
Today I'd compare him to a scarab
From the Egyptian wing of the Louvre.

Or sister Alzbieta communing with the Saints—
Witches dunked and broken on the wheel,
Under the image of the could-kissing Trinity,
Until they confessed that at night they transformed to magpies,
Serving girls taken for their masters' amusement,
Wives delivered divorce decrees,
Mothers with a package below the wall,
Leads with grimy fingernails along the letters,
When the choirmaster, a sacrificer, a Levite,
Climbing the steps, sings: Introibo ad altare Dei.
Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.

Prie Dievo kurs linksmina mano jaunyste.

Mano jaunyste.
My youth.
As long as in the ritual
Of my own words
I swing the censer and the smoke rises.

As long as I raise my voice to implore:
Momento etiam, Domine, famulorum, famularumque, tuarum
Qui nos praecesserunt.

Kurie prima masu nuejo.

What kind of year this day? Easy to remember.
A year when the Eucalyptus forests froze in our hills,
Free wood for every fireplace, enough to stock
For the rainy season and storms from the sea.
In the morning we cut logs with a chainsaw,
A strong, predatory dwarf, bursting in the roar and stench of burning.
And the bay, low, beneath us, the reveling sun,
And the towers of San Francisco, beyond the rust-colored fog.

Behind me, the same consciousness unwilling to forgive.

Perhaps only wonder will save me.

If not for that, I wouldn't dare to pronounce the prophets' words:

“Whatever can be Created can be Annihilated; Forms cannot;
The Oak is cut down by the Ax, the Lamb falls by the Knife,
But their Forms Eternal Exist forever. Amen. Hallelujah!”

“For God himself enters Death's Door and always with those that enter
and lies down in the Grave with them, in Visions of Eternity
till they awake and see Jesus in the Linen Clothes lying
that the females had woven form them and Gates of their Father's House.”

And if the city below was consumed by fire,
As well as the cities of all continents,
I would not say with my mouth of ashes it was unjust.

Judgment, which began in the year seventeen hundred and fifty-seven,
Though not for certain, perhaps in some other year.
It might come to pass in the sixth millennium or next Tuesday.
Suddenly the demiurge's workshop will silence in unimaginable stillness.
And the form of every single grain will return in glory.
I was judged in my despair, for I couldn't comprehend this.