Copied and Pasted.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
In the Middle of This Century
Related Poem Content Details
In the middle of this century we turned to each other
With half faces and full eyes
like an ancient Egyptian picture
And for a short while.
I stroked your hair
In the opposite direction to your journey,
We called to each other,
Like calling out the names of towns
Where nobody stops
Along the route.
Lovely is the world rising early to evil,
Lovely is the world falling asleep to sin and pity,
In the mingling of ourselves, you and I,
Lovely is the world.
The earth drinks men and their loves
Like wine,
To forget.
It can't.
And like the contours of the Judean hills,
We shall never find peace.
In the middle of this century we turned to each other,
I saw your body, throwing shade, waiting for me,
The leather straps for a long journey
Already tightening across my chest.
I spoke in praise of your mortal hips,
You spoke in praise of my passing face,
I stroked your hair in the direction of your journey,
I touched your flesh, prophet of your end,
I touched your hand which has never slept,
I touched your mouth which may yet sing.
Dust from the desert covered the table
At which we did not eat
But with my finger I wrote on it
The letters of your name.
[love is more thicker than forget]
by e. e. cummings
love is more thicker than forget
more thinner than recall
more seldom than a wave is wet
more frequent than to fail
it is most mad and moonly
and less it shall unbe
than all the sea which only
is deeper than the sea
love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive
it is most sane and sunly
and more it cannot die
than all the sky which only
is higher than the sky
Thursday, April 14, 2016
What I mean When I say Farmhouse
Geffrey Davis
Time’s going has ebbed the
moorings
to the memories that make this
city-kid
Part farm-boy. Until a smell close enough to
the sweet-musk of horse tunes my
ears back
To tree frogs blossoming after a
country rain.
I’m back among snakes like slugs
wedged
In ankle-high grass, back inside
that small
eternity spent searching for soft
ground, straining
Not to spill the water-logged heft
of a drowned
barn cat carried in the shallow
scoop of a shovel.
And my brother, large on the
stairs, crying.
each shift in the winds of remembering
renders me
immediate again, like ancient
valleys reignited
by more lightning. If only I could settle on
by more lightning. If only I could settle on
the porch of waiting and listening,
near the big maple bent by children and heat,
near the big maple bent by children and heat,
just before the sweeping threat of summer
thunderstorms. We have our places for
thunderstorms. We have our places for
loneliness—that loaded
asking of the body.
my mother stands beside the kitchen window, her hands
my mother stands beside the kitchen window, her hands
no longer in constant
motion. And my father
walks along the tired fence, watching horses
walks along the tired fence, watching horses
and clouds roll down against the dying
light—
I know he wants to become one or the other.
I want to jar the tenderness of seasons,
to crawl deep into the moment. I’ve come
to crawl deep into the moment. I’ve come
to write less fear into the boy running
through the half-dark. I’ve come for the boy.
through the half-dark. I’ve come for the boy.
What it Look Like
By
Terrance Hayes
Dear Ol' Dirty
Bastard: I too like it raw,
I don't especially
care for Duke Ellington
at a birthday party. I
care less and less
about the shapes of
shapes because forms
change and nothing is
more durable than feeling.
My uncle used the
money I gave him
to buy a few vials of
what looked like candy
after the party where
my grandma sang
in an outfit that was
obviously made
for a West African
king. My motto is
Never mistake what it
is for what it looks like.
My generosity, for
example, is mostly a form
of vanity. A bandanna
is a useful handkerchief,
but a handkerchief is
a useless-ass bandanna.
This only looks like a
footnote in my report
concerning the
party. Trill stands for what is
truly real though it may be hidden by the houses
just over the hills
between us, by the hands
on the bars between
us. That picture
of my grandmother with
my uncle
when he was a baby is
not trill. What it is
is the feeling felt
seeing garbagemen drift
along the predawn
avenues, a sloppy slow rain
taking its time to the
coast. Milquetoast
is not trill, nor is
bouillabaisse. Bakku-shan
is Japanese for a
woman who is beautiful
only when viewed from
behind. Like I was saying,
my motto is Never
mistake what it looks like
for what it is else you end up like that Negro
Othello. (Was Othello
a Negro?) Don't lie
about who you are
sometimes and then realize
the lie is true? You
are blind to your power, Brother
Bastard, like the king
who wanders his kingdom
searching for the
king. And that's okay.
No one will tell you
you are the king.
No one really wants a
king anyway.
Archives
April 2006 January 2009 March 2009 June 2011 July 2011 August 2011 May 2012 July 2012 September 2013 February 2014 June 2014 August 2014 September 2014 January 2015 February 2015 June 2015 July 2015 August 2015 February 2016 April 2016
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]