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Winter Song | Carolyn Kizer
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Jul. 26th, 2008 @ 03:19 am
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So I go on, tediously on and on...
We are separated, finally, not by death but life.
We cling to the dead, but the living break away.
On my birthday, the waxwings arrive in the garden,
strip the trees bare as my barren heart.
I put out suet and bread for December birds:
Hung from evergreen branches, greasy gray
Ornaments for the rites of the winter solstice.
How can you and I meet face to face
After our triumphant love?
After our failure?
Since this isolation, it is always cold.
My clothes don't fit. My hair refuses to obey.
And, for the first time, I permit
These little anarchies of flesh and object.
together, they flick me toward some final defeat.
Thinking of you, I am suddenly old...
A mute spectator as the months wind by.
I have tried to put you out of my mind forever.
Home isn't here. It went away with you,
Disappearing in the space of a breath,
In the time one takes to open a foreknown letter.
My fists are bruised from beating on the ground.
There are clouds between me and the watery light.
Truly, I try to flourish, to find pleasure
Without an endless reference to you
Who made the days and years seem worth enduring. |
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~*~Ryan~*~ // author unknown
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Jul. 25th, 2008 @ 08:21 pm
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I just wanna tell you how much i care.
i wanted to tell you before,
but i just didnt dare.
we are friends, but baby i want more.
You've got that sweet sweet smile,
that i always want to see.
i havent seen you in a while,
but its with you i want to be.
You have that stupid girl,
whom i dont think is right for you.
when i see you with her i really wanna hurl.
hunni, i just wanna make you my boo.
i care so deeply for you,
i care more than that chick could.
i want it to be over between you two,
cause if you gave me a chance i'd take it, i
would!
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Mary Oliver.
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Jul. 25th, 2008 @ 08:31 pm
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The Uses of Sorrow
(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)
Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift. |
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Jul. 25th, 2008 @ 02:39 pm
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Rescue me
Oh take me in your arms
Rescue me
I want your tender charms
'Coz I'm lonely and I'm blue
I need you and your love too
Come on and rescue me |
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So...you think you can write?
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Jul. 25th, 2008 @ 08:03 pm
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Join ![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif) loveletters_v1
a rating community for writers
Mods, if this kind of post isn't allowed, please delete! |
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Ryan // Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz
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Jul. 24th, 2008 @ 09:28 pm
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Of all the names that can be given
to a boy at his birth it was this name
that the gods destined I would develop
the most crushes on. I guess they figured
because I was a poet and you know:
Ryan
Crying
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cool
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Jul. 24th, 2008 @ 10:08 pm
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tribute to the lovely and talented shannon leigh
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Jul. 24th, 2008 @ 09:33 pm
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Daniel Hales | Licorice
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Jul. 24th, 2008 @ 09:20 pm
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If it's been over ten years since you last tried
black licorice, you may now love it.
If you come across a bus stop in mid-December
someone may have written i heart you with
their finger on the window's condensation.
It may be fresh enough you can tell
where she pressed her forefinger down
hardest and whether or not she wore gloves.
It may be that what you think is love
Is no more so than a clump of pink insulation
hanging strangely in a trashed storefront
is a freshly butchered ham.
If you sleep like a manger scene
boxed up in the attic for half a century
you may be in love, have some rare
form of bipolar, or both, plus really thirsty.
There is an explanation for the river's
freezing only at the mouth of its tributary,
translucent necklace of ice.
It may be you are actually as alone as you feel,
that it will only exponentiate.
That this is what scared you so much in the darkness.
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Welcome to Hiroshima | Mary Jo Salter
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Jul. 24th, 2008 @ 07:26 pm
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is what you first see, stepping off the train:
a billboard brought to you in living English
by Toshiba Electric. While a channel
silent in the TV of the brain
projects those flickering re-runs of a cloud
that brims its risen columnful like beer
and, spilling over, hangs its foamy head,
you feel a thirst for history: what year
it started to be safe to breathe the air,
and when to drink the blood and scum afloat
on the Ohta River. But no, the water's clear,
they pour it for your morning cup of tea
in one of the countless sunny coffee shops
whose plastic dioramas advertise
mutations of cuisine behind the glass:
a pancake sandwich; a pizza someone tops
with a maraschino cherry. Passing by
the Peace Park's floral hypocenter (where
how bravely, or with what mistaken cheer,
humanity erased its own erasure),
you enter the memorial museum
and through more glass are served, as on a dish
of blistered grass, three mannequins. Like gloves
a mother clips to coatsleeves, strings of flesh
hang from their fingertips; or as if tied
to recall a duty for us, Reverence
the dead whose mourners too shall soon be dead,
but all commemoration's swallowed up
in questions of bad taste, how re-created
horror mocks the grim original,
and thinking at last They should have left it all
you stop. This is the wristwatch of a child.
Jammed on the moment's impact, resolute
to communicate some message, although mute,
it gestures with its hands at eight-fifteen
and eight-fifteen and eight-fifteen again
while tables of statistics on the wall
update the news by calling on a roll
of tape, death gummed on death, and in the case
adjacent, an exhibit under glass
is glass itself: a shard the bomb slammed in
a woman's arm at eight-fifteen, but some
three decades on—as if to make it plain
hope's only as renewable as pain,
and as if all the unsung
debasements of the past may one day come
rising to the surface once again—
worked its filthy way out like a tongue.
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Jul. 24th, 2008 @ 03:47 pm
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By the way, did you guys know that Jason Flatowicz played trombone on two Bright Eyes records? True! |
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Newbie to the life...
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Jul. 24th, 2008 @ 12:45 pm
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THE SAME OLD FIGURATIVE
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Jul. 24th, 2008 @ 09:48 pm
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THE SAME OLD FIGURATIVE
Joel Toledo
Yes, the world is strange, riddled with difficult sciences
and random magic. But there are compensations, things we do
understand; the high cries and erratic spirals of sparrows,
the sky gray and now giving in to the regular rain.
Still we insist on meaning, that common consolation
that, now and then, makes for beauty. Or disaster.
Listen. The new figures are simply those of birds,
the whole notes of their flightless bodies now snagged
on the many scales of the city. And it's just some thunder,
the usual humming of wires. It is only in it's breaking
that the rain gives itself away. So come now and assemble
with the weather, notice the water gathering in your cupped
and extended hands--familiar and wet and meaningless.
You are merely being cleansed. Bare instead
the scarred heart; notice how it's wild human music
makes such sense. Come, the diving
can wait.
Let us examine the wreckage. |
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yusef komunyakaa, "ignis fatuus"
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Jul. 24th, 2008 @ 02:22 pm
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Something or someone. A feeling
among a swish of reeds. A swampy
glow haloes the Spanish moss,
& there's a swaying at the edge
like a child's memory of abuse
growing flesh, living on what
a screech owl recalls. Nothing
but a presence that fills up
the mind, a replenished body
singing its way into doubletalk.
In the city, Will o' the Wisp
floats out of Miles' trumpet,
leaning ghosts against nighttime's
backdrop of neon. A foolish fire
can also start this way: before
you slide the key into the lock
& half-turn the knob, you know
someone has snuck into your life.
A high window, a corner of sky
spies on upturned drawers of underwear
& unanswered letters, on a tin box
of luminous buttons & subway tokens,
on books, magazines, & clothes
flung to the studio's floor,
his sweat lingering in the air.
Years ago, you followed someone
here, in love with breath
kissing the nape of your neck,
back when it was easy to be
at least two places at once. |
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Max Mosely and BDSM from Blacksilk's Boudoir
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Jul. 24th, 2008 @ 11:41 am
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open posting
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Jul. 23rd, 2008 @ 11:02 pm
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Tunes: Wolfton--> neon sky |
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so very very sad, really..
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Jul. 23rd, 2008 @ 10:33 pm
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Dreams of past lovers -
Cooking dinner for the dead -
get out of my head. |
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the quintessential slam poem? ME! ME! ME!
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Jul. 23rd, 2008 @ 09:09 pm
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Silver-lined Heart // Taylor Mali
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Jul. 23rd, 2008 @ 04:52 pm
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I'm for reckless abandon
and spontaneous celebrations of nothing at all,
like the twin flutes I kept in the trunk of my car
in a box labeled Emergency Champagne Glasses!
Raise an unexpected glass to long, cold winters
and sweet hot summers and the beautiful confusion of the times in between.
To the unexpected drenching rain that leaves you soaking
wet and smiling breathless;
"We danced in the garden in torn sheets in the rain,"
we were christened in the sanctity of the sprinkler,
can't you hear it singing out its Hallelujah?
Here's to the soul-expanding power
of the simply beautiful.
See, things you hate, things you despise,
multinational corporations and lies that politicians tell,
injustices that make you mad as hell,
that's all well and good.
And as far as writing poems goes,
I guess you should.
It just might be a poem that gets Mumia released,
brings an end to terrorism or peace in the middle east.
But as far as what soothes me, what inspires and moves me,
honesty behooves me to tell you your rage doesn't move me.
See, like the darkest of clouds my heart has a silver lining,
which does not hearken to the loudest whining,
but beats and stirs and grows ever more
when I learn of the things you're actually for.
That's why I'm for best friends, long drives, and smiles,
nothing but the sound of thinking for miles.
For the unconditional love of dogs:
may we learn the lessons of their love by heart.
For therapy when you need it,
and poetry when you need it.
And the wisdom to know the difference.
The solution to every problem usually involves some kind of liquid,
even if it's only Emergency Champagne
or running through the sprinkler.
Can't you hear it calling you?
I'm for crushes not acted upon, for admiration from afar,
for the delicate and the resilient and the fragile human heart,
may it always heal stronger than it was before.
For walks in the woods, and the for the woods themselves,
by which I mean the trees. Definitely for the trees.
Window seats, and locally brewed beer,
and love letters written by hand with fountain pens:
I'm for all of these.
I'm for evolution more than revolution
unless you're offering some kind of solution.
I'm for the courage it takes to volunteer, to say "yes," "I believe," and "I will."
For the bright side, the glass half full, the silver lining,
and the optimists who consider darkness just a different kind of shining.
So don't waste my time and your curses on verses
about what you are against, despise, and abhor.
Tell me what inspires you, what fulfills and fires you,
put your precious pen to paper and tell me what you're for!
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thank you, senators
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Jul. 23rd, 2008 @ 06:36 pm
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