FYI
I C U 2
lets hope reading poetry for 14 months has helped counter the soul-degenerating affect of spying on employees.
1.29.2010
problems not to be solved but lived through
First Marriage
I made it cross country
In a little under three days.
The engine blew out
About a hundred miles north
Of San Francisco, where I'd
Hoped to start living again
With a woman I'd abandoned
Only a few months before.
The reasons I'd left her were
Wincingly obvious
Soon as I got back
To her, and it didn't take long
Before I again left her.
In a few weeks I'd meet
The woman who became
My first wife, the one
With whom I spent
Almost the entirety
Of my twenties. It took
About twenty years
Getting over her, after
We divorced at thirty.
Broke then, I took
A bus cross-country
And was back in the East
By Christmas, thinking it
Would take three years maybe
To put this one behind me.
But getting over her
Happened as we were
Both in our third marriages,
Both then with children,
Heading for our fifties.
She came cross-country
To tend to me when I had
Cancer, with a 20% chance
Of recovery. The recovery
From all she had been to me,
Me abiding with her as long
As I did, took place finally
When we, her sitting on my bed
And me lying in it, held hands
And watched ourselves watching
TV, something we'd never quite
Been able to do comfortably
All those years ago. So many
Things turn this way over time,
So much tenderness and memory,
Problems not to be solved
But lived, and I resolved
Right then to start living
Only in this kind of time.
Cancer gave this to me: being
Able to sit, comfortably, to get
Over her finally, and to
Get on with the fight to live while
Staying ready to die daily.
by Liam Rector
I made it cross country
In a little under three days.
The engine blew out
About a hundred miles north
Of San Francisco, where I'd
Hoped to start living again
With a woman I'd abandoned
Only a few months before.
The reasons I'd left her were
Wincingly obvious
Soon as I got back
To her, and it didn't take long
Before I again left her.
In a few weeks I'd meet
The woman who became
My first wife, the one
With whom I spent
Almost the entirety
Of my twenties. It took
About twenty years
Getting over her, after
We divorced at thirty.
Broke then, I took
A bus cross-country
And was back in the East
By Christmas, thinking it
Would take three years maybe
To put this one behind me.
But getting over her
Happened as we were
Both in our third marriages,
Both then with children,
Heading for our fifties.
She came cross-country
To tend to me when I had
Cancer, with a 20% chance
Of recovery. The recovery
From all she had been to me,
Me abiding with her as long
As I did, took place finally
When we, her sitting on my bed
And me lying in it, held hands
And watched ourselves watching
TV, something we'd never quite
Been able to do comfortably
All those years ago. So many
Things turn this way over time,
So much tenderness and memory,
Problems not to be solved
But lived, and I resolved
Right then to start living
Only in this kind of time.
Cancer gave this to me: being
Able to sit, comfortably, to get
Over her finally, and to
Get on with the fight to live while
Staying ready to die daily.
by Liam Rector
home is when im alone with you
a lot of talk and thoughts about the concept of home lately. and on my walk "home" tonight through the wind three songs came on in a row that had to do with home. levi weaver's you are home and melissa etheridge's breathe, for starters, neither of which stupid grooveshark, but also the top song below by edward sharpe that ive had on repeat for the last week or so. anyway here are a few songs i love that deal with this concept we all spend life times defining.
1.28.2010
all I can give you
is february’s fruit
it will not be as sweet
as the flushed skin betrays
do not expect what you have held
on the tongue of your memory
since a summer when
all that could not be swallowed
ran down your face
to meet beneath your chin
but there is something to be savored
in this first imperfect effort--
promise
that a bitter winter
was not for nothing.
is february’s fruit
it will not be as sweet
as the flushed skin betrays
do not expect what you have held
on the tongue of your memory
since a summer when
all that could not be swallowed
ran down your face
to meet beneath your chin
but there is something to be savored
in this first imperfect effort--
promise
that a bitter winter
was not for nothing.
1.27.2010
apertura
sitting here trying to work through everything when a song comes on. and suddenly i feel like im expressing myself just by listening. each string put in motion sounds like the word i have been waiting to find.
each swell of energy is my unguarded self, the knowledge that i'm loved, the desire to be happy. each time the sound retreats there is always that persistent dark rhythm, a pawing at the ground. in the clarity of absence, it is so obvious that something is missing. in the simplicity of a single beat, there is the impatient knowledge that something has to change.
each swell of energy is my unguarded self, the knowledge that i'm loved, the desire to be happy. each time the sound retreats there is always that persistent dark rhythm, a pawing at the ground. in the clarity of absence, it is so obvious that something is missing. in the simplicity of a single beat, there is the impatient knowledge that something has to change.
are you a puma/is it bacon?
no comment on the did your cat eat it/is your cat healthy line of thinking.
see the source of this brilliance here.
Each day, we must learn again how to love, between morning's quick coffee and evening's slow return
In The Middle
of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's,
struggling for balance, juggling time.
The mantle clock that was my grandfather's
has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time
to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,
the chimes don't ring. One day I look out the window,
green summer, the next, the leaves have already fallen,
and a grey sky lowers the horizon. Our children almost grown,
our parents gone, it happened so fast. Each day, we must learn
again how to love, between morning's quick coffee
and evening's slow return. Steam from a pot of soup rises,
mixing with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Our bodies
twine, and the big black dog pushes his great head between;
his tail, a metronome, 3/4 time. We'll never get there,
Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, urging
us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,
sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh
of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up
in love, running out of time.
-Barbara Crooker
of a life that's as complicated as everyone else's,
struggling for balance, juggling time.
The mantle clock that was my grandfather's
has stopped at 9:20; we haven't had time
to get it repaired. The brass pendulum is still,
the chimes don't ring. One day I look out the window,
green summer, the next, the leaves have already fallen,
and a grey sky lowers the horizon. Our children almost grown,
our parents gone, it happened so fast. Each day, we must learn
again how to love, between morning's quick coffee
and evening's slow return. Steam from a pot of soup rises,
mixing with the yeasty smell of baking bread. Our bodies
twine, and the big black dog pushes his great head between;
his tail, a metronome, 3/4 time. We'll never get there,
Time is always ahead of us, running down the beach, urging
us on faster, faster, but sometimes we take off our watches,
sometimes we lie in the hammock, caught between the mesh
of rope and the net of stars, suspended, tangled up
in love, running out of time.
-Barbara Crooker
1.25.2010
seriously, garrison, seriously? enough already. gettin creepy.
at this rate im just going to shut down this blog and put a big link to the writers almanac. 'wondering how im doing or whats on my mind? see poem of the day' (or yesterdays, such as the case may be).
also, really like that it was merwin. havent connected to one of his pieces in a while.
also, im going to resume putting some of my own shit up here. ive been hoarding it because everyone elses poetry is so, so much better. but ill man up soon.
One of the Butterflies
The trouble with pleasure is the timing
it can overtake me without warning
and be gone before I know it is here
it can stand facing me unrecognized
while I am remembering somewhere else
in another age or someone not seen
for years and never to be seen again
in this world and it seems that I cherish
only now a joy I was not aware of
when it was here although it remains
out of reach and will not be caught or named
or called back and if I could make it stay
as I want to it would turn to pain.
by W. S. Merwin
also, really like that it was merwin. havent connected to one of his pieces in a while.
also, im going to resume putting some of my own shit up here. ive been hoarding it because everyone elses poetry is so, so much better. but ill man up soon.
One of the Butterflies
The trouble with pleasure is the timing
it can overtake me without warning
and be gone before I know it is here
it can stand facing me unrecognized
while I am remembering somewhere else
in another age or someone not seen
for years and never to be seen again
in this world and it seems that I cherish
only now a joy I was not aware of
when it was here although it remains
out of reach and will not be caught or named
or called back and if I could make it stay
as I want to it would turn to pain.
by W. S. Merwin
1.23.2010
some people read their horoscopes, i read the writers almanac. todays:
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
by Robert Frost
One of those poems i think i know because the first two lines are beaten over everyones heads. but i could know it better. a whole lot better.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
by Robert Frost
One of those poems i think i know because the first two lines are beaten over everyones heads. but i could know it better. a whole lot better.
1.20.2010
in the midst of a wreck of a day
i realize something through a poem i trip over:
true patience is trust.
and true trust is love.
and i know true love. i just need to let it do its work on me.
The Patience of Ordinary Things
It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they're supposed to be.
I've been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?
by Pat Schneider
true patience is trust.
and true trust is love.
and i know true love. i just need to let it do its work on me.
The Patience of Ordinary Things
It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they're supposed to be.
I've been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?
by Pat Schneider
fireinthebrain
geneva (aka henrriika, but with all those double letters its easier to just dub her as G-town) wrote back to me and painted a picture of what my time with her would be like and its a very pretty picture, oh its really very pretty, and it would be so nice if that picture would just... fade into life, the way it does in the movies where the little blobs of paint in the old brown bound book become people and paperboys yelling and horses clattering by and then the orchestra strikes up and off you skip into the scenery im getting carried away but the point is before i do any skipping (or tripping) i have what feels like a laundry list of responsibilities to handle and questions to answer and i just need a moment to myself to understand my priorities. i hope that will happen at grandmothers late friday night when everything slows down.
I am trying to trust, just trust. i have become many things over this year, changed some things while others have remained unchanged. but trusting is not something i have become.
Insomniac
I open my eyes to see how the night
is progressing. The clock glows green,
the light of the last-quarter moon
shines up off the snow into our bedroom.
Her portion of our oceanic duvet
lies completely flat. The words
of the shepherd in Tristan, "Waste
and empty, the sea," come back to me.
Where can she be? Then in the furrow
where the duvet overlaps her pillow,
a small hank of brown hair
shows itself, her marker that she's here,
asleep, somewhere down in the dark
underneath. Now she rotates
herself a quarter turn, from strewn
all unfolded on her back to bunched
in a Z on her side, with her back to me.
I squirm nearer, careful not to break
into the immensity of her sleep,
and lie there absorbing the astounding
quantity of heat a slender body
ovens up around itself.
Her slow, purring, sometimes snorish,
perfectly intelligible sleeping sounds
abruptly stop. A leg darts back
and hooks my ankle with its foot
and draws me closer. Immediately
her sleeping sounds resume, telling me:
"Come, press against me, yes, like that,
put your right elbow on my hipbone, perfect,
and your right hand at my breasts, yes, that's it,
now your left arm, which has become extra,
stow it somewhere out of the way, good.
Entangled with each other so, unsleeping one,
together we will outsleep the night."
by Galway Kinnell
I am trying to trust, just trust. i have become many things over this year, changed some things while others have remained unchanged. but trusting is not something i have become.
Insomniac
I open my eyes to see how the night
is progressing. The clock glows green,
the light of the last-quarter moon
shines up off the snow into our bedroom.
Her portion of our oceanic duvet
lies completely flat. The words
of the shepherd in Tristan, "Waste
and empty, the sea," come back to me.
Where can she be? Then in the furrow
where the duvet overlaps her pillow,
a small hank of brown hair
shows itself, her marker that she's here,
asleep, somewhere down in the dark
underneath. Now she rotates
herself a quarter turn, from strewn
all unfolded on her back to bunched
in a Z on her side, with her back to me.
I squirm nearer, careful not to break
into the immensity of her sleep,
and lie there absorbing the astounding
quantity of heat a slender body
ovens up around itself.
Her slow, purring, sometimes snorish,
perfectly intelligible sleeping sounds
abruptly stop. A leg darts back
and hooks my ankle with its foot
and draws me closer. Immediately
her sleeping sounds resume, telling me:
"Come, press against me, yes, like that,
put your right elbow on my hipbone, perfect,
and your right hand at my breasts, yes, that's it,
now your left arm, which has become extra,
stow it somewhere out of the way, good.
Entangled with each other so, unsleeping one,
together we will outsleep the night."
by Galway Kinnell
1.18.2010
great things have happened
We were talking about the great things
that have happened in our lifetimes;
and I said, "Oh, I suppose the moon landing
was the greatest thing that has happened
in my time." But, of course, we were all lying.
The truth is the moon landing didn't mean
one-tenth as much to me as one night in 1963
when we lived in a three-room flat in what once had been
the mansion of some Victorian merchant prince
(our kitchen had been a clothes closet, I'm sure),
on a street where by now nobody lived
who could afford to live anywhere else.
That night, the three of us, Claudine, Johnnie and me,
woke up at half-past four in the morning
and ate cinnamon toast together.
"Is that all?" I hear somebody ask.
Oh, but we were silly with sleepiness
and, under our windows, the street-cleaners
were working their machines and conversing in Italian, and
everything was strange without being threatening,
even the tea-kettle whistled differently
than in the daytime: it was like the feeling
you get sometimes in a country you've never visited
before, when the bread doesn't taste quite the same,
the butter is a small adventure, and they put
paprika on the table instead of pepper,
except that there was nobody in this country
except the three of us, half-tipsy with the wonder
of being alive, and wholly enveloped in love.
by alden nowlan
that have happened in our lifetimes;
and I said, "Oh, I suppose the moon landing
was the greatest thing that has happened
in my time." But, of course, we were all lying.
The truth is the moon landing didn't mean
one-tenth as much to me as one night in 1963
when we lived in a three-room flat in what once had been
the mansion of some Victorian merchant prince
(our kitchen had been a clothes closet, I'm sure),
on a street where by now nobody lived
who could afford to live anywhere else.
That night, the three of us, Claudine, Johnnie and me,
woke up at half-past four in the morning
and ate cinnamon toast together.
"Is that all?" I hear somebody ask.
Oh, but we were silly with sleepiness
and, under our windows, the street-cleaners
were working their machines and conversing in Italian, and
everything was strange without being threatening,
even the tea-kettle whistled differently
than in the daytime: it was like the feeling
you get sometimes in a country you've never visited
before, when the bread doesn't taste quite the same,
the butter is a small adventure, and they put
paprika on the table instead of pepper,
except that there was nobody in this country
except the three of us, half-tipsy with the wonder
of being alive, and wholly enveloped in love.
by alden nowlan
1.13.2010
remind me
to discuss what happened last night in one of the strangest settings ive ever observed humans. the confusion frustration manipulation i felt occuring around me and to me. the vulnerability i observed. and the aggression i felt towards the people who preyed on it. and the play i think i want to write about it.
1.11.2010
early hours of sky
i like this blog i just tripped and fell into by poet teresa ballard. she is crazy well read and makes lovely recommendations. but it seems to have come to a standstill last april, and this is sad.
at any rate she did a post where she took ten lines from poems or songs that she could remember off the top of her head. they are all poets i love if not poems i know and love but i could never have recalled these lines. im very impressed if they really do come to her from thin air, unfortunately all that pops into my brain are cliche lines from ancient cobwebby poems i was forced to recite in middleschool.
repetitious conservative early education: 1
self taught post-grad poetry explorations: 0
i have often thought i should memorize a poem each week, as an exercize, as a way to keep my brain lyrical... as an attempt to one day be that awesome older person who can quote poems... maybe that just my idea of awesome. im going to do it though. yeah. im going to DO IT. maybe ill start with a pavlova one i just posted. yeah. YEAH!
anyway i thought id post this here because i want to do one myself later and i want to make sure i know where each of these lines comes from. when i have a chance. i need to get back to work. the work im paid to do.
god DAMNIT i hate mondays.
1. lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind. – Anne Sexton
2. I could see as I laid the last peach in the water--full of fish and eyes--Brigit Pegeen Kelly
3. One day it happens: what you have feared all your life— Marie Howe
4. I would like to be that unnoticed & that necessary-- Margaret Atwood
5. I was much too far out all my life and not waving but drowning. Stevie Smith
6. And the three men I admire most, the father, son and the holy ghost – Don McLean
7. I am in love with a certain kind of cloud – Olena Kalytiak Davis
8. Smart lad, to slip away from fields where glory does not stay--A. E. Housman
9. All my gods are profane, speak without purpose or memory--Ballard
10. We whispered yes, there on the intricate balconies of breath, overlooking the rest of our lives—Carolyn Forche
at any rate she did a post where she took ten lines from poems or songs that she could remember off the top of her head. they are all poets i love if not poems i know and love but i could never have recalled these lines. im very impressed if they really do come to her from thin air, unfortunately all that pops into my brain are cliche lines from ancient cobwebby poems i was forced to recite in middleschool.
repetitious conservative early education: 1
self taught post-grad poetry explorations: 0
i have often thought i should memorize a poem each week, as an exercize, as a way to keep my brain lyrical... as an attempt to one day be that awesome older person who can quote poems... maybe that just my idea of awesome. im going to do it though. yeah. im going to DO IT. maybe ill start with a pavlova one i just posted. yeah. YEAH!
anyway i thought id post this here because i want to do one myself later and i want to make sure i know where each of these lines comes from. when i have a chance. i need to get back to work. the work im paid to do.
god DAMNIT i hate mondays.
1. lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind. – Anne Sexton
2. I could see as I laid the last peach in the water--full of fish and eyes--Brigit Pegeen Kelly
3. One day it happens: what you have feared all your life— Marie Howe
4. I would like to be that unnoticed & that necessary-- Margaret Atwood
5. I was much too far out all my life and not waving but drowning. Stevie Smith
6. And the three men I admire most, the father, son and the holy ghost – Don McLean
7. I am in love with a certain kind of cloud – Olena Kalytiak Davis
8. Smart lad, to slip away from fields where glory does not stay--A. E. Housman
9. All my gods are profane, speak without purpose or memory--Ballard
10. We whispered yes, there on the intricate balconies of breath, overlooking the rest of our lives—Carolyn Forche
vera pavlova. to me. to you.
Multiplying in a column M by F
do we get one or two as a result?
May the body stay glued to the soul,
may the soul fear the body.
Do I ask too much? I only wish
the crucible of tenderness would melt
memories, and I would sleep, my cheek
pressed against your back, as on a motorbike
one of many incredible simple clean picked bone deep love poems by vera pavlova
read more of her beautiful work here
do we get one or two as a result?
May the body stay glued to the soul,
may the soul fear the body.
Do I ask too much? I only wish
the crucible of tenderness would melt
memories, and I would sleep, my cheek
pressed against your back, as on a motorbike
one of many incredible simple clean picked bone deep love poems by vera pavlova
read more of her beautiful work here
1.06.2010
have i talked about ellen bass?
i think i have. i think i once posted her poem, Gate C22, about the smooch exchanged between less than perfect people that everyone in the terminal watched wistfully, wishing for once they were the overweight under styled woman being so tenderly kissed.
i should have noticed then that the poet had a special eye but somehow -blame it on this "job" that keeps making me "work" while in the "office"- i didnt investigate her further. well now i have taken a second, third, fourth, unquenchably thirsty swig of her light clean crispy and deeply satisfying work. i suggest you do to, she is a new favorite.
here is one that might be the closest a poem has ever come to encapsulating the maternal instinct, rivalling one by sharon olds that i can think of...
After Our Daughter's Wedding
While the remnants of cake
and half-empty champagne glasses
lay on the lawn like sunbathers lingering
in the slanting light, we left the house guests
and drove to Antonelli's pond.
On a log by the bank I sat in my flowered dress and cried.
A lone fisherman drifted by, casting his ribbon of light.
"Do you feel like you've given her away?" you asked.
But no, it was that she made it
to here, that she didn't
drown in a well or die
of pneumonia or take the pills.
She wasn't crushed
under the mammoth wheels of a semi
on highway 17, wasn't found
lying in the alley
that night after rehearsal
when I got the time wrong.
It's animal. The egg
not eaten by a weasel. Turtles
crossing the beach, exposed
in the moonlight. And we
have so few to start with.
And that long gestation—
like carrying your soul out in front of you.
All those years of feeding
and watching. The vulnerable hollow
at the back of the neck. Never knowing
what could pick them off—a seagull
swooping down for a clam.
Our most basic imperative:
for them to survive.
And there's never been a moment
we could count on it.
-Ellen Bass
Read more here. please.
i should have noticed then that the poet had a special eye but somehow -blame it on this "job" that keeps making me "work" while in the "office"- i didnt investigate her further. well now i have taken a second, third, fourth, unquenchably thirsty swig of her light clean crispy and deeply satisfying work. i suggest you do to, she is a new favorite.
here is one that might be the closest a poem has ever come to encapsulating the maternal instinct, rivalling one by sharon olds that i can think of...
After Our Daughter's Wedding
While the remnants of cake
and half-empty champagne glasses
lay on the lawn like sunbathers lingering
in the slanting light, we left the house guests
and drove to Antonelli's pond.
On a log by the bank I sat in my flowered dress and cried.
A lone fisherman drifted by, casting his ribbon of light.
"Do you feel like you've given her away?" you asked.
But no, it was that she made it
to here, that she didn't
drown in a well or die
of pneumonia or take the pills.
She wasn't crushed
under the mammoth wheels of a semi
on highway 17, wasn't found
lying in the alley
that night after rehearsal
when I got the time wrong.
It's animal. The egg
not eaten by a weasel. Turtles
crossing the beach, exposed
in the moonlight. And we
have so few to start with.
And that long gestation—
like carrying your soul out in front of you.
All those years of feeding
and watching. The vulnerable hollow
at the back of the neck. Never knowing
what could pick them off—a seagull
swooping down for a clam.
Our most basic imperative:
for them to survive.
And there's never been a moment
we could count on it.
-Ellen Bass
Read more here. please.
1.05.2010
day maker
i do believe it's glowing.
this sweet gift lightened my little life in a big way.
update: the arrangement is called sun and moon.
which is perfect and imperfect and sweet but sad and just made me smile.
also the orchid's name derives from the Greek word "orchis," meaning "testicle."
but thats not really relevant.
1.04.2010
something whose meaning we feel sure we know, and still can't quite translate.
Imagining It
At eighteen, in Paris,
I just woke up out of a dream
just before dawn, and stepped through the long window
from my cold room with its red silk walls.
Shivering a little in my dressing gown,
I leaned on the balustrade
and, look, overnight a light snow had fallen;
no car had driven over it yet, it lay in the street
as white, as innocent, as snow on the open fields.
Then something approached with a calm rhythm
of hoof-beats made softer by the snow, the sound
of a quiet heart. It was a heaped-up wood cart
pulled by a gray horse who walked along slowly,
head down, while the driver
sat at the back of one shaft and hunched over
to light his cigarette.
From above, I saw clearly
the lit match in the old man's cupped hands, its glow
on his long jaw, the small well of flame
between his living palms like the flare
of the soul in his body. He went on
down the street, and the sky went on
growing lighter, and I saw how he left
his dark tracks behind him on the whiteness
of the snow, just the lines of the two wheels,
slightly wavering, and the dints of the horse's hooves
between them, a writing in an undiscovered
language, something whose meaning
we feel sure we know, and still can't quite
translate.
When I stepped inside again,
I stopped thinking about love for a minute — I thought about it
almost all the time then — and thought instead
about being alive for a while in a world
with cobblestones, new snow, and the unconscious
poem printed by hooves on the maiden street.
Of course I was not yet ready to be grateful.
by k. barnes read more here
At eighteen, in Paris,
I just woke up out of a dream
just before dawn, and stepped through the long window
from my cold room with its red silk walls.
Shivering a little in my dressing gown,
I leaned on the balustrade
and, look, overnight a light snow had fallen;
no car had driven over it yet, it lay in the street
as white, as innocent, as snow on the open fields.
Then something approached with a calm rhythm
of hoof-beats made softer by the snow, the sound
of a quiet heart. It was a heaped-up wood cart
pulled by a gray horse who walked along slowly,
head down, while the driver
sat at the back of one shaft and hunched over
to light his cigarette.
From above, I saw clearly
the lit match in the old man's cupped hands, its glow
on his long jaw, the small well of flame
between his living palms like the flare
of the soul in his body. He went on
down the street, and the sky went on
growing lighter, and I saw how he left
his dark tracks behind him on the whiteness
of the snow, just the lines of the two wheels,
slightly wavering, and the dints of the horse's hooves
between them, a writing in an undiscovered
language, something whose meaning
we feel sure we know, and still can't quite
translate.
When I stepped inside again,
I stopped thinking about love for a minute — I thought about it
almost all the time then — and thought instead
about being alive for a while in a world
with cobblestones, new snow, and the unconscious
poem printed by hooves on the maiden street.
Of course I was not yet ready to be grateful.
by k. barnes read more here
when all else fails, poetry:
Days of '74
What was the future then but affirmation,
The first yes between us
Followed by the first lingering dawn?
Waking below a window shaded by redwoods
(Waking? We hadn’t slept—),
We found time saved, like sunlight in a tree.
Still, the house was cold, and there were shadows.
The couple in the next room
Rapped the wall to quiet us, like them,
Condescending from a bitter knowledge
That, young as we all were,
Love didn’t last, but receded into silence.
Wedging our pillows back of the headboard
That clapped in time with us,
We let them think we agreed. Then, holding on,
We closed each other’s mouths and felt that slowness
That the best days begin with
Turn into the speed with which they fly.
Flight was that year’s theme, all around us—
Flight of hunter and hunted,
The President turning inward on one wing,
And, on the patio, the emigration
Of termites, a glittering fleet,
Leaving that shadowed house a little lighter.
Within it all, above it, or beyond,
We thought we were the fixed point,
And held still as the quail lit down beside us
And waited for her plump mate to appear,
His crest a quivering hook.
The valley’s reach of sunshine reeled them in.
There was wilderness around us, don’t forget.
Behind the nets of fragrance
Thrown across our path by the acacia
Lurked the green man or the kidnapper.
And there was the Pacific
With its own passions taking place as rain.
The sorrow of the couple in the next room
Was a deep muteness nightly.
That loneliness could come of loving was
Like news of time cored out of the redwood.
The house that we made shake,
Or thought we did, was taking wing already.
After we left, still it took us years
Before we stopped comparing
Every morning together to that first one
And every place we lived to that first place
And everything we said
To that first word repeated all night long.
by Mark Jarman
What was the future then but affirmation,
The first yes between us
Followed by the first lingering dawn?
Waking below a window shaded by redwoods
(Waking? We hadn’t slept—),
We found time saved, like sunlight in a tree.
Still, the house was cold, and there were shadows.
The couple in the next room
Rapped the wall to quiet us, like them,
Condescending from a bitter knowledge
That, young as we all were,
Love didn’t last, but receded into silence.
Wedging our pillows back of the headboard
That clapped in time with us,
We let them think we agreed. Then, holding on,
We closed each other’s mouths and felt that slowness
That the best days begin with
Turn into the speed with which they fly.
Flight was that year’s theme, all around us—
Flight of hunter and hunted,
The President turning inward on one wing,
And, on the patio, the emigration
Of termites, a glittering fleet,
Leaving that shadowed house a little lighter.
Within it all, above it, or beyond,
We thought we were the fixed point,
And held still as the quail lit down beside us
And waited for her plump mate to appear,
His crest a quivering hook.
The valley’s reach of sunshine reeled them in.
There was wilderness around us, don’t forget.
Behind the nets of fragrance
Thrown across our path by the acacia
Lurked the green man or the kidnapper.
And there was the Pacific
With its own passions taking place as rain.
The sorrow of the couple in the next room
Was a deep muteness nightly.
That loneliness could come of loving was
Like news of time cored out of the redwood.
The house that we made shake,
Or thought we did, was taking wing already.
After we left, still it took us years
Before we stopped comparing
Every morning together to that first one
And every place we lived to that first place
And everything we said
To that first word repeated all night long.
by Mark Jarman
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