Tag Archives: poetry

Graves

petShe tells her love while half asleep,
In the dark hours,
With half-words whispered low:
As Earth stirs in her winter sleep
And put out grass and flowers
Despite the snow,
Despite the falling snow.

– ROBERT GRAVES

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under poetry, Uncategorized

Tulips

kiki smith poetry

Jewel by Kiki Smith, Aquatint and etching on paper, 2004

The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here.
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nurses
And my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons.

They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff
Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut.
Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in.
The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble,
They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,
Doing things with their hands, one just the same as another,
So it is impossible to tell how many there are.

My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage——
My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox,
My husband and child smiling out of the family photo;
Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks.

I have let things slip, a thirty-year-old cargo boat
stubbornly hanging on to my name and address.
They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations.
Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley
I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now, I have never been so pure.

I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free——
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.

The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Even through the gift paper I could hear them breathe
Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle : they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color,
A dozen red lead sinkers round my neck.

Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me
Where once a day the light slowly widens and slowly thins,
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.

Before they came the air was calm enough,
Coming and going, breath by breath, without any fuss.
Then the tulips filled it up like a loud noise.
Now the air snags and eddies round them the way a river
Snags and eddies round a sunken rust-red engine.
They concentrate my attention, that was happy
Playing and resting without committing itself.

The walls, also, seem to be warming themselves.
The tulips should be behind bars like dangerous animals;
They are opening like the mouth of some great African cat,
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love of me.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.

SYLVIA PLATH

 

Leave a comment

Filed under Artwork, flowers, ideas

Holy Spring

20130730_16_53_22 (2)

Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy! The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand and asshole holy!
Everything is holy! everybody’s holy! everywhere is holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman’s an angel!
The bum’s as holy as the seraphim! the madman is holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!

More by Allen G. / Photo by Kuba Wasikiewicz. Tummy hole by me…

Leave a comment

Filed under Photo collaboration with Jakub Wasikiewicz, Photos

kind of solitary, contemplative mood.

Image

***

LOFTON: I want to ask you about this psychiatric disability.

GINSBERG: No, no, no. no, no, no, no, no. Sir, first of all your tone is too aggressive. You have to soften your tone, because there’s an element of aggression here. There’s an element almost like a police interrogation here.

LOFTON: But that’s not all bad. The police, in some instances, do a good job, particularly in dealing with criminals.

GINSBERG: Sir, in this case it’s a little impolite. You’re being a little harsh and unfriendly and making it very difficult for me to relate to you gently and talk unguardedly and candidly.

LOFTON: There’s no doubt that from what I’ve read about you, I don’t like what you have stood for over the years. I don’t like your politics, the kind of sex you engage in. So if you mean there’s a hostility here toward what you are, absolutely there is.

GINSBERG: But you’re talking to me as if I’m an object of some kind and not a person in front of you, I’m asking you, in a sense, to watch your manners.

***

Leave a comment

Filed under comics, Quotations

Don’t surrender…

Don’t surrender your loneliness
So quickly.
Let it cut more deep.

Let it ferment and season you.
As few human
Or even divine ingredients can.

Something missing in my heart tonight
Has made my eyes so soft,
My voice
So tender

My need of God
Absolutely
Clear.

― حافظ

Leave a comment

January 3, 2014 · 6:27 pm

Deena Metzger, “Leavings”

I want what is left: 
The tea leaves, the soiled images on cards, 
The gasp of words as meaning slips away, 
The rinds of the alphabet, 
The chewed poems of prisoners, 
The bones and the skeletons, 
The secretions, the shattered sperm, 
The blind blood, the phlegm and the cough. 

It has always been women’s work to prepare the corpse. 

But, I will not make a corpse from these elements, 
I will make a child. 
I will make you such a rose of a child, 
A rose of a child held in the crook 
Of the dark hand of a dead branch, 
I will make you a child shining 
Like an angel from these elements of dark, 
And the child will sing. 

This is what we have 
This is what we have to work with. 

So give them to me, 
First your dead, moldering 
In the dreadful heat of your deserted cities, 
Then give me the iron birds in the sky, 
With their demented warbling, 
Last, I want your radiant soul 
With its eternal shimmer. 
Give me everything mangled and bruised, 
And I will make a light of it to make you weep, 
And we will have rain, 
And begin again.

 

 

1 Comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Gamble everything

Gamble everything for love, if you’re a true human being.

If not, leave this gathering.

Half-heartedness doesn’t reach into majesty. You set out to find God,

but then you keep stopping for long periods at mean-spirited roadhouses.

– Rumi (Referenced in “Awakening from Virtual Reality” by Tara Brach)

Leave a comment

September 24, 2013 · 5:22 pm