2.26.2010
time was carrying us in its palm like spare change
god i wish i could write irreverant casual off the cuff ass pinching poetry like this. i get all obsessive with words and bore myself to death. im going to get drunk by myself one night and just start writing.
(it was so hot...)
It was so hot
you would singe your fingertips
just opening the car door.
But that's nothing compared
to what we did to each other.
The mattress shoved
to the center of your practically
empty sublet.
The cicadas buzzing so loudly
like they were sawing a way
through our thoughts.
It was a defining moment
& that was part of the problem—
The way a thing defined
naturally resists
whatever it means to mean.
& then there would be nothing
left to eat but our words
because we'd blown the week's tips
at the bar.
Surely one of our fantasies
had been of wrecking
the spinning rims on the truck
that belonged to the assholes
next door.
For fun we dragged our Goodwill
couch to the curb
& watched the heat lightning.
Any fool could tell
that time was carrying us
in its palm like spare change.
by Matthew Guenette
(it was so hot...)
It was so hot
you would singe your fingertips
just opening the car door.
But that's nothing compared
to what we did to each other.
The mattress shoved
to the center of your practically
empty sublet.
The cicadas buzzing so loudly
like they were sawing a way
through our thoughts.
It was a defining moment
& that was part of the problem—
The way a thing defined
naturally resists
whatever it means to mean.
& then there would be nothing
left to eat but our words
because we'd blown the week's tips
at the bar.
Surely one of our fantasies
had been of wrecking
the spinning rims on the truck
that belonged to the assholes
next door.
For fun we dragged our Goodwill
couch to the curb
& watched the heat lightning.
Any fool could tell
that time was carrying us
in its palm like spare change.
by Matthew Guenette
2.25.2010
feeling extremely weak, extremely vulnerable today, cant find the right words to explain why so grabbing onto poetry to pull me out
AM
I’ve been told
that people in the army
do more by 7:00 am
than I do
in an entire day
but if I wake
at 6:59 am
and turn to you
to trace the outline of your lips
with mine
I will have done enough
and killed no one
in the process.
by Shane Koyczan
that'll do for now
I’ve been told
that people in the army
do more by 7:00 am
than I do
in an entire day
but if I wake
at 6:59 am
and turn to you
to trace the outline of your lips
with mine
I will have done enough
and killed no one
in the process.
by Shane Koyczan
that'll do for now
this brief bouquet for you
In The Alley
In the alley behind the florist's shop,
a huge white garbage truck was parked and idling.
In a cloud of exhaust, two men in coveralls
and stocking caps, their noses dripping,
were picking through the florist's dumpster
and each had selected a fistful of roses.
As I walked past, they gave me a furtive,
conspiratorial nod, perhaps sensing
that I, too (though in my business suit and tie)
am a devotee of garbage – an aficionado
of the wilted, the shopworn, and the free—
and that I had for days been searching
beneath the heaps of worn-out, faded words
to find this brief bouquet for you.
by Ted Kooser
In the alley behind the florist's shop,
a huge white garbage truck was parked and idling.
In a cloud of exhaust, two men in coveralls
and stocking caps, their noses dripping,
were picking through the florist's dumpster
and each had selected a fistful of roses.
As I walked past, they gave me a furtive,
conspiratorial nod, perhaps sensing
that I, too (though in my business suit and tie)
am a devotee of garbage – an aficionado
of the wilted, the shopworn, and the free—
and that I had for days been searching
beneath the heaps of worn-out, faded words
to find this brief bouquet for you.
by Ted Kooser
recedes in the mirror like a disappointment
Travel Directions
There ought to be a word
for the way you know how to get some place
but don't remember the names of streets
the number of turns and blinking yellow lights
so that if someone asked
you really couldn't say
except you know the road starts out straight
and when it's sunny the branches blink across
the windshield making you want to rub your eyes
then the road turns sharply uphill past a red barn
where a black dog jumps out to race you for a quarter mile
and finally recedes in the mirror like a disappointment
and you remember the road dips downhill
into the shadows of the morning
where you hear Bach's unaccompanied 'cello
and understand what a good fit the 'cello makes
in the hollow of the body
where grief begins and for an indeterminate time
the road winds vaguely past
houses people road signs
while time hums in your ear and you remember
the dream you left behind that morning
which had nothing
to do with where
you are going
by Joan I. Siegel
There ought to be a word
for the way you know how to get some place
but don't remember the names of streets
the number of turns and blinking yellow lights
so that if someone asked
you really couldn't say
except you know the road starts out straight
and when it's sunny the branches blink across
the windshield making you want to rub your eyes
then the road turns sharply uphill past a red barn
where a black dog jumps out to race you for a quarter mile
and finally recedes in the mirror like a disappointment
and you remember the road dips downhill
into the shadows of the morning
where you hear Bach's unaccompanied 'cello
and understand what a good fit the 'cello makes
in the hollow of the body
where grief begins and for an indeterminate time
the road winds vaguely past
houses people road signs
while time hums in your ear and you remember
the dream you left behind that morning
which had nothing
to do with where
you are going
by Joan I. Siegel
2.23.2010
through whatever storm he’s trapped inside
Common Magic
Your best friend falls in love
and her brain turns to water.
You can watch her lips move,
making the customary sounds,
but you can see they’re merely
words, flimsy as bubbles rising
from some golden sea where she
swims sleek and exotic as a mermaid.
It’s always like that.
You stop for lunch in a crowded
restaurant and the waitress floats
toward you. You can tell she doesn’t care
whether you have the baked or french-fried
and you wonder if your voice comes out in bubbles too.
It’s not just women either. Or love
for that matter. The old man
across from you on the bus holds
a young child on his knee; he is singing
to her and his voice is a small boy
turning somersaults in the green
country of his blood.
It’s only when the driver calls his stop
that he emerges into this puzzle
of brick and tiny hedges. Only then
you notice his shaking hands, his need
of the child to guide him home.
All over the city
you move in your own seasons
through the seasons of others: old women, faces
clawed by weather you can’t feel
clack dry tongues at passersby
while adolescents seethe
in their glassy atmospheres of anger.
In parks, the children
are alien life-forms, rooted
in the galaxies they’ve grown through
to get here. Their games weave
the interface and their laughter
tickles that part of your brain where smells
are hidden and the nuzzling textures of things.
It’s a wonder that anything gets done
at all: a mechanic flails
at the muffler of your car
through whatever storm he’s trapped inside
and the mailman stares at numbers
from the haze of a distant summer.
Yet somehow letters arrive and buses
remember their routes. Banks balance.
Mangoes ripen on the supermarket shelves.
Everyone manages. You gulp the thin air
of this planet as if it were the only
one you knew. Even the earth you’re
standing on seems solid enough.
It’s always the chance word, unthinking
gesture that unlocks the face before you.
Reveals the intricate countries
deep within the eyes. The hidden
lives, like sudden miracles,
that breathe there.
by Bronwen Wallace
Your best friend falls in love
and her brain turns to water.
You can watch her lips move,
making the customary sounds,
but you can see they’re merely
words, flimsy as bubbles rising
from some golden sea where she
swims sleek and exotic as a mermaid.
It’s always like that.
You stop for lunch in a crowded
restaurant and the waitress floats
toward you. You can tell she doesn’t care
whether you have the baked or french-fried
and you wonder if your voice comes out in bubbles too.
It’s not just women either. Or love
for that matter. The old man
across from you on the bus holds
a young child on his knee; he is singing
to her and his voice is a small boy
turning somersaults in the green
country of his blood.
It’s only when the driver calls his stop
that he emerges into this puzzle
of brick and tiny hedges. Only then
you notice his shaking hands, his need
of the child to guide him home.
All over the city
you move in your own seasons
through the seasons of others: old women, faces
clawed by weather you can’t feel
clack dry tongues at passersby
while adolescents seethe
in their glassy atmospheres of anger.
In parks, the children
are alien life-forms, rooted
in the galaxies they’ve grown through
to get here. Their games weave
the interface and their laughter
tickles that part of your brain where smells
are hidden and the nuzzling textures of things.
It’s a wonder that anything gets done
at all: a mechanic flails
at the muffler of your car
through whatever storm he’s trapped inside
and the mailman stares at numbers
from the haze of a distant summer.
Yet somehow letters arrive and buses
remember their routes. Banks balance.
Mangoes ripen on the supermarket shelves.
Everyone manages. You gulp the thin air
of this planet as if it were the only
one you knew. Even the earth you’re
standing on seems solid enough.
It’s always the chance word, unthinking
gesture that unlocks the face before you.
Reveals the intricate countries
deep within the eyes. The hidden
lives, like sudden miracles,
that breathe there.
by Bronwen Wallace
2.22.2010
dad's birthday toast
breakfast with my father on a winter saturday
eggs toast bacon no potatoes in an upper east cafe
we drink our coffee slowly, discuss his art collection
and the painting that was victim to my childish misconception
he listens as i tell him and he laughs til almost weeping
to me the Baselitz was of the woman who did our housekeeping
later we are speaking in soft tones of 'if' and 'when'
and casually he adds those words 'if something were to happen'
but i only half-listen, look how handsome he's become!
how words are parentheticals in laugh lines they emerge from
how pepper that seasoned his hair shook out to salty white
my father comes in focus in the clarity of morning light
that he has lived so well, still reaps so much from what he's planted
how thankful I am he can laugh at all this child took for granted.
2.21.2010
its my father's 65th birthday today
Descriptions of Heaven and Hell
The wave breaks
And I'm carried into it.
This is hell, I know,
Yet my father laughs,
Chest-deep, proving I'm wrong.
We're safely rooted,
Rocked on his toes.
Nothing irked him more
Than asking, "What is there
Beyond death?"
His theory once was
That love greets you,
And the loveless
Don't know what to say.
by Mark Jarman
The wave breaks
And I'm carried into it.
This is hell, I know,
Yet my father laughs,
Chest-deep, proving I'm wrong.
We're safely rooted,
Rocked on his toes.
Nothing irked him more
Than asking, "What is there
Beyond death?"
His theory once was
That love greets you,
And the loveless
Don't know what to say.
by Mark Jarman
2.19.2010
hold me. but hold the mustard.
this is becoming a poem. just noting it publicly to shame myself into actually developing it.
the substance that holds our little atoms together into bodies
perfection, this poem. love is so universal its really astounding we dont all give in and subscribe to it as a religion.
Three of Cups
At some point it becomes true that all stories
are love stories. all making, love making.
I didn't make this rule. but it binds me
all the same. I wish there were a law
against condescending against love. against
the economy of fear that says your joy
means less joy for me as if love
were pie, or money, or fossil fuel
dug or pumped from the earth, gone
when it's gone. it's just not true. the heart
with its gift for magnificent expansion
is not coal. not fruit set to spoil or the dollar
cringing in its wallet. when you say darling,
the world lights up at its edges. when mouths
find mouths and minds follow or minds find
minds and mouths, hands, hips, toes, follow –
how about you call that sacred. how about you raise
your veined right hand and swear on the blood
that branches there, yes. I take this crush
to be my lawful infatuation. I will bend toward joy
until the bending's its own pleasure. I will memorize
photographs and street maps, I will acquiesce
to the maudlin urgency of pop songs and dance,
and dance – there's a perfection only the impossible kiss
possesses. there are notes you can only hear naked
in the dark of a room to which you will never
return. anything that moves the world toward light
is a blessing. why not take it with both hands,
lift it to your lips like a broth of stars. this
is the substance that holds our little atoms together
into bodies. this sweet paste of longing
is all that binds us to the earth.
and all we know of the gods.
by Marty McConnell
Three of Cups
At some point it becomes true that all stories
are love stories. all making, love making.
I didn't make this rule. but it binds me
all the same. I wish there were a law
against condescending against love. against
the economy of fear that says your joy
means less joy for me as if love
were pie, or money, or fossil fuel
dug or pumped from the earth, gone
when it's gone. it's just not true. the heart
with its gift for magnificent expansion
is not coal. not fruit set to spoil or the dollar
cringing in its wallet. when you say darling,
the world lights up at its edges. when mouths
find mouths and minds follow or minds find
minds and mouths, hands, hips, toes, follow –
how about you call that sacred. how about you raise
your veined right hand and swear on the blood
that branches there, yes. I take this crush
to be my lawful infatuation. I will bend toward joy
until the bending's its own pleasure. I will memorize
photographs and street maps, I will acquiesce
to the maudlin urgency of pop songs and dance,
and dance – there's a perfection only the impossible kiss
possesses. there are notes you can only hear naked
in the dark of a room to which you will never
return. anything that moves the world toward light
is a blessing. why not take it with both hands,
lift it to your lips like a broth of stars. this
is the substance that holds our little atoms together
into bodies. this sweet paste of longing
is all that binds us to the earth.
and all we know of the gods.
by Marty McConnell
When the tower falls, be like that child.
Do you have any advice for those of us just starting out?
Give up sitting dutifully at your desk. Leave
your house or apartment. Go out into the world.
It’s all right to carry a notebook but a cheap
one is best, with pages the color of weak tea
and on the front a kitten or a space ship.
Avoid any enclosed space where more than
three people are wearing turtlenecks. Beware
any snow-covered chalet with deer tracks
across the muffled tennis courts.
Not surprisingly, libraries are a good place to write.
And the perfect place in a library is near an aisle
where a child a year or two old is playing as his
mother browses the ranks of the dead.
Often he will pull books from the bottom shelf.
The title, the author’s name, the brooding photo
on the flap mean nothing. Red book on black, gray
book on brown, he builds a tower. And the higher
it gets, the wider he grins.
You who asked for advice, listen: When the tower
falls, be like that child. Laugh so loud everybody
in the world frowns and says, “Shhhh.”
Then start again.
By Ron Koertge
Give up sitting dutifully at your desk. Leave
your house or apartment. Go out into the world.
It’s all right to carry a notebook but a cheap
one is best, with pages the color of weak tea
and on the front a kitten or a space ship.
Avoid any enclosed space where more than
three people are wearing turtlenecks. Beware
any snow-covered chalet with deer tracks
across the muffled tennis courts.
Not surprisingly, libraries are a good place to write.
And the perfect place in a library is near an aisle
where a child a year or two old is playing as his
mother browses the ranks of the dead.
Often he will pull books from the bottom shelf.
The title, the author’s name, the brooding photo
on the flap mean nothing. Red book on black, gray
book on brown, he builds a tower. And the higher
it gets, the wider he grins.
You who asked for advice, listen: When the tower
falls, be like that child. Laugh so loud everybody
in the world frowns and says, “Shhhh.”
Then start again.
By Ron Koertge
2.18.2010
When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while holding me by the hand
sometimes i forget that the grandfathers of poetry were human too, and as such, make a lot of damn sense sometimes. this poem captures what ive been feeling, something that basically boils down to the fact that everything is up in the air except how i feel about the people i love.
we drive through the dark and dont know where we're going, dont know what will happen when we get there but you reach for my hand and i am silent, satisfied.
i require nothing further.
Of The Terrible Doubt Of Appearances
Of the terrible doubt of appearances,
Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,
That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,
May-be the things I perceive, the animals, plants, men, hills, shining and flowing waters,
The skies of day and night, colors, densities, forms, may-be these are (as doubtless they are) only apparitions, and the real something has yet to be known,
(How often they dart out of themselves as if to confound me and mock me!
How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of them,)
May-be seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they indeed but seem) as from my present point of view, and might prove (as of course they would) nought of what they appear, or nought anyhow, from entirely changed points of view;
To me these and the like of these are curiously answer'd by my lovers, my dear friends,
When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while holding me by the hand,
When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold not, surround us and pervade us,
Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom, I am silent, I require nothing further,
I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of identity beyond the grave,
But I walk or sit indifferent, I am satisfied,
He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.
by Walt Whitman
we drive through the dark and dont know where we're going, dont know what will happen when we get there but you reach for my hand and i am silent, satisfied.
i require nothing further.
Of The Terrible Doubt Of Appearances
Of the terrible doubt of appearances,
Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,
That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable only,
May-be the things I perceive, the animals, plants, men, hills, shining and flowing waters,
The skies of day and night, colors, densities, forms, may-be these are (as doubtless they are) only apparitions, and the real something has yet to be known,
(How often they dart out of themselves as if to confound me and mock me!
How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows, aught of them,)
May-be seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they indeed but seem) as from my present point of view, and might prove (as of course they would) nought of what they appear, or nought anyhow, from entirely changed points of view;
To me these and the like of these are curiously answer'd by my lovers, my dear friends,
When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while holding me by the hand,
When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and reason hold not, surround us and pervade us,
Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom, I am silent, I require nothing further,
I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of identity beyond the grave,
But I walk or sit indifferent, I am satisfied,
He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.
by Walt Whitman
you held the parked car's wheel with two hands
the way one does at night in a relentless rain
and in the silence after it was said
we looked through the glass at what we faced
a dog walked through the square moon of a street light
tipsy with lameness, left legs weaving over right
tail wagging though that could have been
a consequence of pain
in any case we paid a quiet respect then
to the way the animal can find its balance
how it manages to move forward
even against the tide of its own body
whatever words we used that night
here is what i meant to say
and what i think i heard:
walk with me
weak side to weak side
so that when i stagger
at least it will bring me closer to you.
***
and a song off the sweet (unofficial) soundtrack of the weekend:
the way one does at night in a relentless rain
and in the silence after it was said
we looked through the glass at what we faced
a dog walked through the square moon of a street light
tipsy with lameness, left legs weaving over right
tail wagging though that could have been
a consequence of pain
in any case we paid a quiet respect then
to the way the animal can find its balance
how it manages to move forward
even against the tide of its own body
whatever words we used that night
here is what i meant to say
and what i think i heard:
walk with me
weak side to weak side
so that when i stagger
at least it will bring me closer to you.
***
and a song off the sweet (unofficial) soundtrack of the weekend:
2.12.2010
big day
today i transfered the final amount of money from my checking to savings account to finally reach the goal i set before which i would not travel. or rather, after which, i WOULD travel. which means, i am, by my own definition, financially ready to take flight.
ah gods why do you mock me with your well timed poetic moments
as a follow up to my outburst against/around the idea of "journeying" and as if to give me a cross between a pat on the head, a kick in the ass and a huge long finger, the gods planted this poem in my path this morning. and its beautiful. and perfect. and im printing it and keeping it with me. even if i dont have a journey at least i have mary oliver.
The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
by mary oliver
The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
by mary oliver
alonewithcats
my friend jessica has finally started the blog in part because ive been badgering her to unleash her raza' sharp wit on the world, its ridiculous that im the only one peeing my pants from our gchat conversations on a daily basis. so i HIGHLY ENCOURAGE YOU ALL to follow it religiously.
if youre the kind of person who is turned off my sarcasm, tries to keep a positive attitude at all times, or is fond of saying things like "turn that frown upside down" then 1. get off my blog and 2. dont waste your time with jessicas. but for the rest of us, this is a bitter pill washed down with a healthy glass of deprication and it does a body good.
alonewithcats.wordpress.com
if youre the kind of person who is turned off my sarcasm, tries to keep a positive attitude at all times, or is fond of saying things like "turn that frown upside down" then 1. get off my blog and 2. dont waste your time with jessicas. but for the rest of us, this is a bitter pill washed down with a healthy glass of deprication and it does a body good.
alonewithcats.wordpress.com
and were back
Apologize for that outburst. Then again, I felt it, all of it, and I wouldn't want to 'invalidate' my emotions, and yes those were condescending quote marks, I'm somewhat wary of that word and people who use it.
But of course as soon as I let myself descend into complete self pity and irrational aggression at helpless hairdressers, things started to shift. I'm sure it has something to do with letting it all go, all the pretense and false cheerfulness,emptying the soul of bullshit and actually making room for change.nothing too concrete but at two in the morning after googling til I was blue in the face I came across an awesome school of gastronomy, sustainable eating, food communications etc. Its run by the slow food foundation in part, built off their principles etc. I'm not sure its perfectly right for me and its definitely expensive and I am already questioning why I need to spend so much money when I'm not even sure how ill use the degree but this is how I scratch everything off my list. And maybe I just need to go down the food path for a bit and trust it, even if it doesn't immediately encompass all the other things I'd imagine myself doing. Maybe I have to do it for myself, if nothing else to work on my relationship to food or if nothing else to get a job working for fair trade, or for a chocolate maker, because I can, or of nothing ELSE,to be that much meaner in the kitchen. I don't know.
Also out of the blue I found a bakery in geneva's website and emailed the owner about cooking schools in the area and when I woke up I had a sweet sweet note from her which always tickles me, that people will help a total stranger. And then a lauryn hill song I love came on as I was getting dressed. And there was a shaft of sunlight in my room and kitty was rolling in it in that way cats do and you can't help smile when cats luxuriate in sun.
And I have to say, I washed and recut my hair...
And its not the end of the world.
But of course as soon as I let myself descend into complete self pity and irrational aggression at helpless hairdressers, things started to shift. I'm sure it has something to do with letting it all go, all the pretense and false cheerfulness,emptying the soul of bullshit and actually making room for change.nothing too concrete but at two in the morning after googling til I was blue in the face I came across an awesome school of gastronomy, sustainable eating, food communications etc. Its run by the slow food foundation in part, built off their principles etc. I'm not sure its perfectly right for me and its definitely expensive and I am already questioning why I need to spend so much money when I'm not even sure how ill use the degree but this is how I scratch everything off my list. And maybe I just need to go down the food path for a bit and trust it, even if it doesn't immediately encompass all the other things I'd imagine myself doing. Maybe I have to do it for myself, if nothing else to work on my relationship to food or if nothing else to get a job working for fair trade, or for a chocolate maker, because I can, or of nothing ELSE,to be that much meaner in the kitchen. I don't know.
Also out of the blue I found a bakery in geneva's website and emailed the owner about cooking schools in the area and when I woke up I had a sweet sweet note from her which always tickles me, that people will help a total stranger. And then a lauryn hill song I love came on as I was getting dressed. And there was a shaft of sunlight in my room and kitty was rolling in it in that way cats do and you can't help smile when cats luxuriate in sun.
And I have to say, I washed and recut my hair...
And its not the end of the world.
2.11.2010
warning: this is me at my worst. now read at your own risk of losing a huge amount of respect for me.
im out of my mind with irrational frustration right now
and maybe the worst part is that im so fucking aggressively uncomfortably angry, that i cant even effectively write it out. i cant write it off. i keep writing, erasing writing erasingwritingerasingwriteraseraserase
this is a strong enough emotion that even i cant deny its related to something bigger, im not completely detached from reality, but i will say that what threw me over the edge, superficial or not, was a REALLY FUCKING BAD HAIRCUT.
everyone has their thing, snapping gum, being put on hold, losing the keys, your cell wont pick up service when it clearly should be, hitting their head on something, pulling on the seatbelt and having it lock again and again, getting in the shower and finding the water lukewarm or a dribble of pressure, whatever it is, it doesn't warrant crying over it or kicking a wall but you do. you do. you fucking lose it.
well put me in a tepid shower with no cell service and knock my head against something ten times and it wont set me off but when the rare impulse strikes me to actually get a haircut, as in, NOT take a pair of scissors to my own head, actually pay someone to do it for me, i want it to look better than the way it looks when i do it. and this is a strange thing for me to go ape over because most days i drag my ass out of bed and my hair looks like something washed up on the shore after a hurricane but maybe thats why, if i entrust it to a professional, it better make a DIFFERENCE.
i dont want to look like a 13 year old mall rat, i dont want to walk away unable to run my fingers through my hair because you couldnt figure out how to cut it so you gave up half way through and mashed two pounds of wax into it and pretended that counted as a haircut, i dont want to look in the mirror and feel like one of those mushrooms creatures from mario brothers with a full-on bowl cut, and i definitely, definitely DONT WANT YOU TO TELL ME TO GROW IT OUT AND COME BACK IN A MONTH BECAUSE YOU CANT DO ANYTHING WITH IT NOW ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY YOURE A HAIRDRESSER DRESS MY GODDAMN HAIR OR TRY SELLING PEANUTS ON THE CORNER IF YOU CANT HACK IT AS A STYLIST.
i feel like im wasting my life. i dont know what im good at. im mediocre at most things, decent at a few things, great at nothing except maybe loving people but google tells me theres no career in that. the only thing i seem to be any good at is fucking with words. and not always. and not always for the greater good. i dont know what the greater good is. i dont know where to start to seek myself. i dont even know how to get a visa to travel. i am afraid of being lonely when i travel but im equally afraid of filling my time with friends and not gaining anything from the journey itself. i hate the word journey because it sounds desperate but i am desperate and im afraid maybe i hate the word because ive never actually been on one and maybe thats because im too spoiled, too privileged, too scared to take real risks. im afraid of coming home and being no better, no clearer, no more directed than i was when i left. i believe where i'm at has a name and its called self loathing. if i could unzip my skin and step out of it, un hinge my head and take out my brain, i would.
im going to take a shower. and im bringing paint thinner and a paint scraper to try to get this wax off my scalp.
and maybe the worst part is that im so fucking aggressively uncomfortably angry, that i cant even effectively write it out. i cant write it off. i keep writing, erasing writing erasingwritingerasingwriteraseraserase
this is a strong enough emotion that even i cant deny its related to something bigger, im not completely detached from reality, but i will say that what threw me over the edge, superficial or not, was a REALLY FUCKING BAD HAIRCUT.
everyone has their thing, snapping gum, being put on hold, losing the keys, your cell wont pick up service when it clearly should be, hitting their head on something, pulling on the seatbelt and having it lock again and again, getting in the shower and finding the water lukewarm or a dribble of pressure, whatever it is, it doesn't warrant crying over it or kicking a wall but you do. you do. you fucking lose it.
well put me in a tepid shower with no cell service and knock my head against something ten times and it wont set me off but when the rare impulse strikes me to actually get a haircut, as in, NOT take a pair of scissors to my own head, actually pay someone to do it for me, i want it to look better than the way it looks when i do it. and this is a strange thing for me to go ape over because most days i drag my ass out of bed and my hair looks like something washed up on the shore after a hurricane but maybe thats why, if i entrust it to a professional, it better make a DIFFERENCE.
i dont want to look like a 13 year old mall rat, i dont want to walk away unable to run my fingers through my hair because you couldnt figure out how to cut it so you gave up half way through and mashed two pounds of wax into it and pretended that counted as a haircut, i dont want to look in the mirror and feel like one of those mushrooms creatures from mario brothers with a full-on bowl cut, and i definitely, definitely DONT WANT YOU TO TELL ME TO GROW IT OUT AND COME BACK IN A MONTH BECAUSE YOU CANT DO ANYTHING WITH IT NOW ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY YOURE A HAIRDRESSER DRESS MY GODDAMN HAIR OR TRY SELLING PEANUTS ON THE CORNER IF YOU CANT HACK IT AS A STYLIST.
i feel like im wasting my life. i dont know what im good at. im mediocre at most things, decent at a few things, great at nothing except maybe loving people but google tells me theres no career in that. the only thing i seem to be any good at is fucking with words. and not always. and not always for the greater good. i dont know what the greater good is. i dont know where to start to seek myself. i dont even know how to get a visa to travel. i am afraid of being lonely when i travel but im equally afraid of filling my time with friends and not gaining anything from the journey itself. i hate the word journey because it sounds desperate but i am desperate and im afraid maybe i hate the word because ive never actually been on one and maybe thats because im too spoiled, too privileged, too scared to take real risks. im afraid of coming home and being no better, no clearer, no more directed than i was when i left. i believe where i'm at has a name and its called self loathing. if i could unzip my skin and step out of it, un hinge my head and take out my brain, i would.
im going to take a shower. and im bringing paint thinner and a paint scraper to try to get this wax off my scalp.
THXTHXTHX blog
sweet as hell. this girl has a blog where writes thank you notes to everything. poetry, as far as i'm concerned, in its own way. enjoy. and be thankful.
2.10.2010
the one word that will protect you from the grief at the center of your dream
Variations on the Word "Sleep"
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
by Margaret Atwood
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
by Margaret Atwood
2.09.2010
i think this blog has great feng shui.
its oddly arranged but i feel very calm every time i arrive at the page.
that is all. just congratulating myself. toot toot.
that is all. just congratulating myself. toot toot.
oh i like so much i cant even think straight.
Not as Smart as I think I am
I know that the “57” in Heinz 57 refers to the number
of pickles that the company used to sell, and that
graham crackers and corn flakes were originally
created to prevent masturbation, but I can’t tell you
the difference between a seal and sea lion. Or
the difference between an alligator and a crocodile,
though I think it has to do something with the shape
of their snouts. Pumas and leopards are the same cats
with different colored coats, and something called
“the wingless fly” lives in the Antarctica, but I only
know this because I saw it on a PBS kid’s show once,
and also, I had to google the spelling of Antarctica
because my computer dictionary told me I wasn’t
even close. You know, they say that there is a part
of the human chest that if you strike it hard enough
the person’s heart explodes. This sounds like such a lie
that I have to believe it’s the truth. If I were science,
I’d never tell anyone where this place is. If I were science,
I’d have named this place after you.
Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz
also read "be prepared" on this site. just do it. this, to me, is fantastic verse.
and THEN i looked her up and look at what i found! She's a hero! and was at DARTMOUTH?! GAH. WHERE WAS I AND ALSO CAN I BE HER?
"In 1996, Cristin started attending NYU's Tisch School of the Arts for Dramatic Writing, where she was first introduced to poetry slams by her classmate, Beau Sia.
With the help of Beau, Cristin founded the NYC-Urbana Reading Series in 1998. Dedicated to showcasing the most innovative voices in poetry, NYC-Urbana has captured the National Slam Championship title three times. Cristin, herself, made history becoming the youngest founding slammaster in the nation when she started the series at age 19, and has since taken home two Slammaster Slam Championships. The slam is still held weekly at NYC's famed Bowery Poetry Club.
Since graduating from NYU in 2000, Cristin has worked as the editor for the "Adult" section for online portal About.com (see Cristin's second book of poetry, Hot Teen Slut for more information on that) and was a founding employee of the Bowery Poetry Club. She is currently a rights agent for the Artists Rights Society.
Cristin continues to perform and lecture internationally & nationally, including residencies with or performances at the Sydney Opera House, the Gasworks Art Complex (Melbourne Australia), Joe's Pub (at NYC's Public Theatre), the Culver Academy (Indiana) and universities & colleges, such Yale University, University of Pennsylvania, Dartmouth College and Amhearst College, among many others."
I know that the “57” in Heinz 57 refers to the number
of pickles that the company used to sell, and that
graham crackers and corn flakes were originally
created to prevent masturbation, but I can’t tell you
the difference between a seal and sea lion. Or
the difference between an alligator and a crocodile,
though I think it has to do something with the shape
of their snouts. Pumas and leopards are the same cats
with different colored coats, and something called
“the wingless fly” lives in the Antarctica, but I only
know this because I saw it on a PBS kid’s show once,
and also, I had to google the spelling of Antarctica
because my computer dictionary told me I wasn’t
even close. You know, they say that there is a part
of the human chest that if you strike it hard enough
the person’s heart explodes. This sounds like such a lie
that I have to believe it’s the truth. If I were science,
I’d never tell anyone where this place is. If I were science,
I’d have named this place after you.
Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz
also read "be prepared" on this site. just do it. this, to me, is fantastic verse.
and THEN i looked her up and look at what i found! She's a hero! and was at DARTMOUTH?! GAH. WHERE WAS I AND ALSO CAN I BE HER?
"In 1996, Cristin started attending NYU's Tisch School of the Arts for Dramatic Writing, where she was first introduced to poetry slams by her classmate, Beau Sia.
With the help of Beau, Cristin founded the NYC-Urbana Reading Series in 1998. Dedicated to showcasing the most innovative voices in poetry, NYC-Urbana has captured the National Slam Championship title three times. Cristin, herself, made history becoming the youngest founding slammaster in the nation when she started the series at age 19, and has since taken home two Slammaster Slam Championships. The slam is still held weekly at NYC's famed Bowery Poetry Club.
Since graduating from NYU in 2000, Cristin has worked as the editor for the "Adult" section for online portal About.com (see Cristin's second book of poetry, Hot Teen Slut for more information on that) and was a founding employee of the Bowery Poetry Club. She is currently a rights agent for the Artists Rights Society.
Cristin continues to perform and lecture internationally & nationally, including residencies with or performances at the Sydney Opera House, the Gasworks Art Complex (Melbourne Australia), Joe's Pub (at NYC's Public Theatre), the Culver Academy (Indiana) and universities & colleges, such Yale University, University of Pennsylvania, Dartmouth College and Amhearst College, among many others."
2.08.2010
In a Time of Economic Downturn, I Gaze Up at The Sky
the poem by michael blumenthal on the writers almanac today is startling not only because stocks are falling like crazy, not only because the desire to curl up under the covers and narrow the world down to two people resonates with me deeply these days, not only because the title reminds me of advice i received- to look up at the sky- from the same person the poem recalls, not ONLY because of the reference to sun, moon AND COFFEE, but also the fact that this morning on the T i was writing a poem around a very similiar concept.
planned on writing it up and posting it tonight.
might be rethinkin that.
but nice to know, as poetry always shows, that i may not be creatively unique but i am also not alone on this great big marble.
"...All of us—
sun, moon, coffee, clouds— might feel a twinge
of guilt: such indifference to profit and loss!
Yet, all over the world, tiny birds with broken wings
and injuries of all sorts are making their way
back to their nests, even the waterlogged anhinga
is drying its wings in the sun. It's good to know
so much keeps going on, despite everything."
planned on writing it up and posting it tonight.
might be rethinkin that.
but nice to know, as poetry always shows, that i may not be creatively unique but i am also not alone on this great big marble.
"...All of us—
sun, moon, coffee, clouds— might feel a twinge
of guilt: such indifference to profit and loss!
Yet, all over the world, tiny birds with broken wings
and injuries of all sorts are making their way
back to their nests, even the waterlogged anhinga
is drying its wings in the sun. It's good to know
so much keeps going on, despite everything."
2.05.2010
i love all your hunger, all your fullness.
Table
(Masa da Masaymis Ha)
A man filled with the gladness of living
Put his keys on the table,
Put flowers in a copper bowl there.
He put his eggs and milk on the table.
He put there the light that came in through the window,
Sound of a bicycle, sound of a spinning wheel.
The softness of bread and weather he put there.
On the table the man put
Things that happened in his mind.
What he wanted to do in life,
He put that there.
Those he loved, those he didn't love,
The man put them on the table too.
Three times three make nine:
The man put nine on the table.
He was next to the window next to the sky;
He reached out and placed on the table endlessness.
So many days he had wanted to drink a beer!
He put on the table the pouring of that beer.
He placed there his sleep and his wakefulness;
His hunger and his fullness he put there.
Now that's what I call a table!
It didn't complain at all about the load.
It wobbled once or twice, then stood firm.
The man kept piling things on.
Edip Cansever
(Masa da Masaymis Ha)
A man filled with the gladness of living
Put his keys on the table,
Put flowers in a copper bowl there.
He put his eggs and milk on the table.
He put there the light that came in through the window,
Sound of a bicycle, sound of a spinning wheel.
The softness of bread and weather he put there.
On the table the man put
Things that happened in his mind.
What he wanted to do in life,
He put that there.
Those he loved, those he didn't love,
The man put them on the table too.
Three times three make nine:
The man put nine on the table.
He was next to the window next to the sky;
He reached out and placed on the table endlessness.
So many days he had wanted to drink a beer!
He put on the table the pouring of that beer.
He placed there his sleep and his wakefulness;
His hunger and his fullness he put there.
Now that's what I call a table!
It didn't complain at all about the load.
It wobbled once or twice, then stood firm.
The man kept piling things on.
Edip Cansever
2.04.2010
the desire to vanish is stronger than the desire to appear
Perpetual Motion
In a little while I’ll be drifting up an on-ramp,
sipping coffee from a styrofoam container,
checking my gas gauge with one eye
and twisting the dial of the radio
with the fingers of my third hand,
Looking for a station I can steer to Saturn on.
It seems I have the traveling disease
again, an outbreak of that virus
celebrated by the cracked lips
of a thousand blues musicians—song
about a rooster and a traintrack,
a sunrise and a jug of cherry cherry wine.
It's the kind of perceptual confusion
that makes your loved ones into strangers,
that makes a highway look like a woman
with air conditioned arms. With a
bottomless cup of coffee for a mouth
and jewelry shaped like pay phone booths
dripping from her ears.
In a little while the radio will
almost have me convinced
that I am doing something romantic,
something to do with “freedom” and “becoming”
instead of fright and flight into
an anonymity so deep
it has no bottom,
only signs to tell you what direction
you are falling in: CHEYENNE, SEATTLE,
WICHITA, DETROIT—Do you hear me,
do you feel me moving through?
With my foot upon the gas,
between the future and the past,
I am here—
here where the desire to vanish
is stronger than the desire to appear.
by Tony Hoagland
In a little while I’ll be drifting up an on-ramp,
sipping coffee from a styrofoam container,
checking my gas gauge with one eye
and twisting the dial of the radio
with the fingers of my third hand,
Looking for a station I can steer to Saturn on.
It seems I have the traveling disease
again, an outbreak of that virus
celebrated by the cracked lips
of a thousand blues musicians—song
about a rooster and a traintrack,
a sunrise and a jug of cherry cherry wine.
It's the kind of perceptual confusion
that makes your loved ones into strangers,
that makes a highway look like a woman
with air conditioned arms. With a
bottomless cup of coffee for a mouth
and jewelry shaped like pay phone booths
dripping from her ears.
In a little while the radio will
almost have me convinced
that I am doing something romantic,
something to do with “freedom” and “becoming”
instead of fright and flight into
an anonymity so deep
it has no bottom,
only signs to tell you what direction
you are falling in: CHEYENNE, SEATTLE,
WICHITA, DETROIT—Do you hear me,
do you feel me moving through?
With my foot upon the gas,
between the future and the past,
I am here—
here where the desire to vanish
is stronger than the desire to appear.
by Tony Hoagland
2.03.2010
And I fell, again and again, entangled
first im reading a poem. then im reading a good poem. and then im done reading but im thinking about it an hour later. and reading it again. and i'm remembering the line about the lonely western hero acting out his part down a lightless street as if it were a memory of my own. and then suddenly, it is my memory. and ive experienced this poem in the present and the past. and its wonderful. just fucking wonderful what words can do.
Like Riding a Bicycle
I would like to write a poem
About how my father taught me
To ride a bicycle one soft twilight,
A poem in which he was tired
And I was scared, unable to disbelieve
In gravity and believe in him,
As the fireflies were coming out
And only enough light remained
For one more run, his big hand at the small
Of my back, pulling away like the gantry
At a missile launch, and this time, this time
I wobbled into flight, caught a balance
I would never lose, and pulled away
From him as he eased, laughing, to a stop,
A poem in which I said that even today
As I make some perilous adult launch,
Like pulling away from my wife
Into the fragile new balance of our life
Apart, I can still feel that steadying hand,
Still hear that strong voice telling me
To embrace the sweet fall forward
Into the future's blue
Equilibrium. But,
Of course, he was drunk that night,
Still wearing his white shirt
And tie from the office, the air around us
Sick with scotch, and the challenge
Was keeping his own balance
As he coaxed his bulk into a trot
Beside me in the hot night, sweat
Soaking his armpits, the eternal flame
Of his cigarette flaring as he gasped
And I fell, again and again, entangled
In my gleaming Schwinn, until
He swore and stomped off
Into the house to continue
Working with my mother
On their own divorce, their balance
Long gone and the hard ground already
Rising up to smite them
While I stayed outside in the dark,
Still falling, until at last I wobbled
Into the frail, upright delight
Of feeling sorry for myself, riding
Alone down the neighborhood's
Black street like the lonely western hero
I still catch myself in the act
Of performing.
And yet, having said all this,
I must also say that this summer evening
Is very beautiful, and I am older
Than my father ever was
As I coast the Pacific shoreline
On my old bike, the gears clicking
Like years, the wind
Touching me for the first time, it seems,
In a very long time,
With soft urgency all over.
by George Bilgere
Like Riding a Bicycle
I would like to write a poem
About how my father taught me
To ride a bicycle one soft twilight,
A poem in which he was tired
And I was scared, unable to disbelieve
In gravity and believe in him,
As the fireflies were coming out
And only enough light remained
For one more run, his big hand at the small
Of my back, pulling away like the gantry
At a missile launch, and this time, this time
I wobbled into flight, caught a balance
I would never lose, and pulled away
From him as he eased, laughing, to a stop,
A poem in which I said that even today
As I make some perilous adult launch,
Like pulling away from my wife
Into the fragile new balance of our life
Apart, I can still feel that steadying hand,
Still hear that strong voice telling me
To embrace the sweet fall forward
Into the future's blue
Equilibrium. But,
Of course, he was drunk that night,
Still wearing his white shirt
And tie from the office, the air around us
Sick with scotch, and the challenge
Was keeping his own balance
As he coaxed his bulk into a trot
Beside me in the hot night, sweat
Soaking his armpits, the eternal flame
Of his cigarette flaring as he gasped
And I fell, again and again, entangled
In my gleaming Schwinn, until
He swore and stomped off
Into the house to continue
Working with my mother
On their own divorce, their balance
Long gone and the hard ground already
Rising up to smite them
While I stayed outside in the dark,
Still falling, until at last I wobbled
Into the frail, upright delight
Of feeling sorry for myself, riding
Alone down the neighborhood's
Black street like the lonely western hero
I still catch myself in the act
Of performing.
And yet, having said all this,
I must also say that this summer evening
Is very beautiful, and I am older
Than my father ever was
As I coast the Pacific shoreline
On my old bike, the gears clicking
Like years, the wind
Touching me for the first time, it seems,
In a very long time,
With soft urgency all over.
by George Bilgere
slow show
I wanna hurry home to you
put on a slow, dumb show for you
and crack you up
so you can put a blue ribbon on my brain
god I’m very, very frightened
I’ll overdo it
put on a slow, dumb show for you
and crack you up
so you can put a blue ribbon on my brain
god I’m very, very frightened
I’ll overdo it
2.02.2010
so unapologetic. so, so beautiful.
What the Living Do
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living room windows because the heat's on too high in here, and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street the bag breaking,
I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss -- we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living, I remember you.
by Marie Howe
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up
waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through
the open living room windows because the heat's on too high in here, and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street the bag breaking,
I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,
I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.
What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss -- we want more and more and then more of it.
But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a cherishing so deep
for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm speechless:
I am living, I remember you.
by Marie Howe
What happened to all the problems that disappear when you refuse to name them?
Maimonides on What Is Meant by "Vision"
Nothing ever comes true. Not the future of the American kitchenette,
nor the future of the American child. The fashion choices of space colonies
are way off. The future of retirement, say, or the future of want, is want.
The future of language is shorthand, because there are only three models
of vision. The commercial, which delineates the species of the present.
The infomercial, which dates back to pagan times. The seance,
a parlor trick that asks the souls of the dead to perform parlor tricks.
At the spiritual minimum, the people who want to kill us are also
the people we want to kill. What happened to all the problems
that disappear when you refuse to name them? They burned away like money.
No longer a dime to spare on a new appliance, unless it will work forever.
No such thing, no such thing as a self-cleaning oven.
by Benjamin Paloff
more by Paloff here
Nothing ever comes true. Not the future of the American kitchenette,
nor the future of the American child. The fashion choices of space colonies
are way off. The future of retirement, say, or the future of want, is want.
The future of language is shorthand, because there are only three models
of vision. The commercial, which delineates the species of the present.
The infomercial, which dates back to pagan times. The seance,
a parlor trick that asks the souls of the dead to perform parlor tricks.
At the spiritual minimum, the people who want to kill us are also
the people we want to kill. What happened to all the problems
that disappear when you refuse to name them? They burned away like money.
No longer a dime to spare on a new appliance, unless it will work forever.
No such thing, no such thing as a self-cleaning oven.
by Benjamin Paloff
more by Paloff here
2.01.2010
to move openly together, in the pull of gravity, which is not simple
I wake up in your bed. I know I have been dreaming.
Much earlier, the alarm broke us from each other,
you've been at your desk for hours. I know what I dreamed:
our friend the poet comes into my room
where I've been writing for days,
drafts, carbons, poems are scattered everywhere,
and I want to show her one poem
which is the poem of my life. But I hesitate,
and wake. You've kissed my hair
to wake me. I dreamed you were a poem,
I say, a poem I wanted to show someone...
and I laugh and fall dreaming again
of the desire to show you to everyone I love,
to move openly together
in the pull of gravity, which is not simple,
which carried the feathered grass a long way down
the upbreathing air.
by Adrienne Rich
Much earlier, the alarm broke us from each other,
you've been at your desk for hours. I know what I dreamed:
our friend the poet comes into my room
where I've been writing for days,
drafts, carbons, poems are scattered everywhere,
and I want to show her one poem
which is the poem of my life. But I hesitate,
and wake. You've kissed my hair
to wake me. I dreamed you were a poem,
I say, a poem I wanted to show someone...
and I laugh and fall dreaming again
of the desire to show you to everyone I love,
to move openly together
in the pull of gravity, which is not simple,
which carried the feathered grass a long way down
the upbreathing air.
by Adrienne Rich
slam poetry meets love poetry meets me and....this met me like a ton of feathers.
selected excerpts from Shane Koyczan's Apology:
I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I keep saying that I'm sorry.
I know it's strange, strange in a "George W. Bush hasn't been assassinated yet" kind of way,...
And my heart is a protest that I let rally against my ribs because I want to build my bones into cribs
and lay my reluctance to rest; test what it would be like to live frenetically,
to hold you unapologetically, to plant a giving tree on my front lawn so that when you're gone
it can give you back to me. And I'm sorry that when you sleep next to me you're forced
to listen to the symphony of the unplugged nostril and I'm sorry that for one time for some reason
I called you ma'am, that's fucked up. Fucked up in an
"I just bought a pair of Speedos so I could go swimming with you"
kind of way. And crazier than that is the fact that I will play at being brave
because doubt is about as useful as a fire escape when you are trying to dodge a tidal wave.
When you've got no time to save anyone but yourself you better believe
you're worth it and you are worth the time it takes to take the time to get to know you.
We've managed to muddle through the awkward stages of "I like you" and "do you like me"
and when we both said yes life became a multiple choice test; not knowing anything,
we became each others best guess. And holding your hand is less like exploration and more like discovery.
I don't have to study you to be sure you were the choice I made before
I knew what the other choices were.
Read more here
I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I keep saying that I'm sorry.
I know it's strange, strange in a "George W. Bush hasn't been assassinated yet" kind of way,...
And my heart is a protest that I let rally against my ribs because I want to build my bones into cribs
and lay my reluctance to rest; test what it would be like to live frenetically,
to hold you unapologetically, to plant a giving tree on my front lawn so that when you're gone
it can give you back to me. And I'm sorry that when you sleep next to me you're forced
to listen to the symphony of the unplugged nostril and I'm sorry that for one time for some reason
I called you ma'am, that's fucked up. Fucked up in an
"I just bought a pair of Speedos so I could go swimming with you"
kind of way. And crazier than that is the fact that I will play at being brave
because doubt is about as useful as a fire escape when you are trying to dodge a tidal wave.
When you've got no time to save anyone but yourself you better believe
you're worth it and you are worth the time it takes to take the time to get to know you.
We've managed to muddle through the awkward stages of "I like you" and "do you like me"
and when we both said yes life became a multiple choice test; not knowing anything,
we became each others best guess. And holding your hand is less like exploration and more like discovery.
I don't have to study you to be sure you were the choice I made before
I knew what the other choices were.
Read more here
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