Posts tagged poetry.


Living in and out of the past,
so many things have died
in me.

In and out like a tide,
each tear
holds a tiny hologram.
Even this early
I am full of years.

Here are the little gravestones
where memory
stands in the wild grass,
watching the future
arrive in a line of big black cars.

All days
lost days, in and out of themselves
between dreaming
and dreaming again and half-

Carol Ann Duffy, All Days Lost Days,” from New Selected Poems 1984-2004 (Picador 2004) (via be-i-ng)

#poetry  #ouch  


Mr. Berg Waves to the Sky

He raised his hand above his head.
His hair was a surface of gray,
his hand a semaphore.
No one to answer, to call.
His hand raised, and he wasn’t sure.
The symmetry of his body broken,
one arm up, one arm down.
His name was still Berg.
His hand had spoken,
nevertheless, above him.

Lavina Blossom. Art: Unknown, Sunset Sky.

#poetry  #art  


[Because desire won’t shrug off…]

Because desire won’t shrug off,
and the heart begins to eat its stores
its substance—slowly, at first, and
                        (but nothing’s left to lose so it is downed)

            We have a thing here called hunger
A feeling and an ache, want of want.

You could try it sometime if you like.

Sun drinks down its own day.
Dusk takes us to task.
Hath drunk so deep

You could be forgiven for not knowing.
You could be forgiven for a lot of things.

Hannah Sanghee Park




There’s a black bear
in the apple tree
and he won’t come down.
I can hear him panting,
like an athlete.
I can smell the stink
of his body.

Come down, black bear.
Can you hear me?

The mind is the most interesting thing to me;
like the sudden death of the sun,
it seems implausible that darkness will swallow it
or that anything is lost forever there,
like a black bear in a fruit tree,
gulping up sour apples
with dry sucking sounds,

or like us at the pier, somber and tired,
making food from sunlight,
you saying a word, me saying a word, trying hard,
though things were disintegrating.
Still, I wanted you,
your lips on my neck,
your postmodern sexuality.
Forlorn and anonymous:
I didn’t want to be that. I could hear
the great barking monsters of the lower waters
calling me forward.

You see, my mind takes me far,
but my heart dreams of return.
Black bear,
with pale-pink tongue
at the center of his face,
is turning his head,
like the face of Christ from life.
Shaking the apple boughs,
he is stronger than I am
and seems so free of passion—
no fear, no pain, no tenderness. I want to be that.

Come down, black bear,
I want to learn the faith of the indifferent.

Henri Cole


In Defence of Adultery


We don’t fall in love: it rises through us
the way that certain music does –
whether a symphony or ballad –
and it is sepia-colored,
like split tea that inches up
the tiny tube-like gaps inside
a cube of sugar lying in a cup.
Yes, love’s like that: just when we least
needed or expected it
a part of us dips into it
by chance or mishap and it seeps
through our capillaries, it clings
inside the chambers of the heart.
We’re victims, we say: mere vessels,
drinking the vanilla scent
of this one’s skin, the lustre
of another’s eyes so skilfully
darkened with bistre. And whatever
damage might result we’re not
to blame for it: love is an autocrat
and won’t be disobeyed.
Sometime we manage
to convince ourselves of that.

Julia Corpus

#poetry  #ouch  


Fear of Happiness

Looking back, it’s something I’ve always had:
As a kid, it was a glass-floored elevator
I crouched at the bottom of, my eyes squinched tight,
Or staircase whose gaps I was afraid I’d slip through,
Though someone always said I’d be all right—
Just don’t look down or See, it’s not so bad
(The nothing rising underfoot). Then later
The high-dive at the pool, the tree-house perch,
Ferris wheels, balconies, cliffs, a penthouse view,
The merest thought of airplanes. You can call
It a fear of heights, a horror of the deep;
But it isn’t the unfathomable fall
That makes me giddy, makes my stomach lurch,
It’s that the ledge itself invents the leap.

A.E. Stallings




What starts things

are the accidents behind the eyes
touched off by, say, the missing cheekbone
of a woman who might have been beautiful

it is thinking about
your transplanted life-line going places
in someone else’s palm, or the suicidal games
your mind plays with the edge
of old wounds, or something
you couldn’t share with your lover

there are no endings

people die between birthdays and go on for years;
what stops things for a moment
are the words you’ve found for the last bit of light
you think there is

Stephen Dunn
via readalittlepoetry

#poetry  #ouch  


Frying Trout While Drunk

Mother is drinking to forget a man
who could fill the woods with invitations:   
come with me he whispered and she went   
in his Nash Rambler, its dash
where her knees turned green
in the radium dials of the 50’s.
When I drink it is always 1953,
bacon wilting in the pan on Cook Street   
and mother, wrist deep in red water,   
laying a trail from the sink
to a glass of gin and back.
She is a beautiful, unlucky woman
in love with a man of lechery so solid   
you could build a table on it
and when you did the blues would come to visit.   
I remember all of us awkwardly at dinner,   
the dark slung across the porch,
and then mother’s dress falling to the floor,   
buttons ticking like seeds spit on a plate.   
When I drink I am too much like her—   
the knife in one hand and the trout  
with a belly white as my wrist.   
I have loved you all my life
she told him and it was true
in the same way that all her life
she drank, dedicated to the act itself,   
she stood at this stove
and with the care of the very drunk   
handed him the plate.

How the Trees on Summer Nights Turn into a Dark River


how you can never reach it, no matter how hard you try,
walking as fast as you can, but getting nowhere,
arms and legs pumping, sweat drizzling in rivulets;
each year, a little slower, more creaks and aches, less breath.
Ah, but these soft nights, air like a warm bath, the dusky wings
of bats careening crazily overhead, and you’d think the road
goes on forever. Apollinaire wrote, “What isn’t given to love
is so much wasted,” and I wonder what I haven’t given yet.
A thin comma moon rises orange, a skinny slice of melon,
so delicious I could drown in its sweetness. Or eat the whole
thing, down to the rind. Always, this hunger for more.

Barbara Crooker

#poetry  #ouch  


After the photograph Manatee Drive 02 by Isabella Hayeur, 2011

No one who
has ever seen

a body of water
has not imagined

drowning. Surface
divides my eye

and my breath
holds me.

The underskin
of the canal

grows light
that dangles

down, tickling
the cement throat.

I figure we are
mostly helpless

against water
because we

are mostly water.
When I go under

I count:
1 Berryman;

2 Berryman; …
If you dream

of drowning,
you wake up

under an ocean
of air. There are

so many stupid
sayings I confuse

them all. I know
what to never

bring to a gun fight
but what should

I never bring
to a drowning?

Not even bombs
intimidate water.

One motivational
saying goes:

If you don’t give up,
you win.
 But I’m

pretty sure that’s not
how it works

or as Kafka said:
The meaning

of life is that it
will end. The water

both buoys
and buries us.

To prepare yourself
for your near-life

experience: dip
your open eyeball

into a bowl of cold
water. There is

always tension
on the horizon.

I will be the one
wearing rust

and erosion.
Algae may one day

rise up against us,
but until then

please allow me
to oxidize in peace.

Usually the last
thing we ever do

is gasp.

 -Matt Rasmussen, “Canal”


Summer Solstice


I wanted to see where beauty comes from
without you in the world, hauling my heart
across sixty acres of northeast meadow,
my pockets filling with flowers.
Then I remembered,
it’s you I miss in the brightness
and body of every living name:
rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch.
You are the green wonder of June,
root and quasar, the thirst for salt.
When I finally understand that people fail
at love, what is left but cinquefoil, thistle,
the paper wings of the dragonfly
aeroplaning the soul with a sudden blue hilarity?
If I get the story right, desire is continuous,
equatorial. There is still so much
I want to know: what you believe
can never be removed from us,
what you dreamed on Walnut Street
in the unanswerable dark of your childhood,
learning pleasure on your own.
Tell me our story: are we impetuous,
are we kind to each other, do we surrender
to what the mind cannot think past?
Where is the evidence I will learn
to be good at loving?
The black dog orbits the horseshoe pond
for treefrogs in their plangent emergencies.
There are violet hills,
there is the covenant of duskbirds.
The moon comes over the mountain
like a big peach, and I want to tell you
what I couldn’t say the night we rushed
North, how I love the seriousness of your fingers
and the way you go into yourself,
calling my half-name like a secret.
I stand between taproot and treespire.
Here is the compass rose
to help me live through this.
Here are twelve ways of knowing
what blooms even in the blindness
of such longing. Yellow oxeye,
viper’s bugloss with its set of pink arms
pleading do not forget me.
We hunger for eloquence.
We measure the isopleths.
I am visiting my life with reckless plenitude.
The air is fragrant with tiny strawberries.
Fireflies turn on their electric wills:
an effulgence. Let me come back
whole, let me remember how to touch you
before it is too late.


The Way She Figured He Figured It

You get over these constant storms and learn to be married all over again, every day. 
                              —Barry Hannah 

The foyer is hers because the kettle is hers as it was made for water and the water is hers 
                 because the sac that grew the baby was hers though the semen that made the sac was his
                                         like his boots are his and the tea that’s of the kettle 

after it enters his mouth is his unless it’s hers since it’s inside the kitchen that’s hers 

and therefore not his unless he’s simmering the Asian sauces that are his 
                 because they’re dense and knotty rather than milkish and paltry 
                                         like everything else from the nation state of the motherland 

of the no-mercy child who won’t stop sucking and wanting and whining in the ear that is his 

although the child herself belongs somehow to the woman and thus its hunger is hers 
                 as is the bed and dresser and mirror and latch 
                                         though the hammer naturally is his and the saw and lumber 

and back and muscle he suffered to build because he guessed he thought it would be 

good for something besides this house like a pestilence of people who weren’t his 
                 because nothing was his except the whirl he carried in his belly of the mix-up 
                                         of loving her in the first place 

like being sucked into a burrow of lava embers and putting your tongue to it until it caught fire 

and all he could say was that the burn was his—this hole in the mouth— 
                 this fiasco of the woman bent now in the garden to smell the cilantro 
                                         as though she didn’t know his head was split 

with hating her and loving her and hating her and loving her 

because she was an ache and a kink and somehow the furrow—the groove and the rut— 
                 and age and death and kiss and fuck and not-fuck and song and not-song 
                                         and no it was not sweet though he’d go on and carry it 

                                                          since also—since mostly—it was.

Adrian Blevins