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Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

if there are any heavens my mother will

if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have
one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses

my father will be(deep like a rose
tall like a rose)

standing near my

(swaying over her
silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my

(suddenly in sunlight

he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow)

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I did not know what I do now know

All the hurt and pain that your words can grow

For to call them false were far to high a praise

For a heart should not be turned by a clever turn of phrase

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II.

Women as gates, saying:
“The process is after all, like music:
like the development of a piece of music.
The fugues come back and
again and again
interweave.
A theme may seem to have been put aside,
but it keeps returning—
the same thing modulated,
somewhat changed in form.
Usually richer.
And it is very good that this is so.”

A woman pouring her opposites,
“After all there are happy things in life too.
Why do you show only the dark side?”
“I could not answer this. But I know—
in the beginning my impulse to know
the working life
had little to do with
pity or sympathy.
I simply felt 
that the life of the workers was beautiful.”

She said, “I am groping in the dark.”

She said, “When the door opens, of sensuality,
then you will understand it too. The struggle begins.
Never again to be free of it,
often you will feel it to be your enemy.
Sometimes
you will almost suffocate,
such joy it brings.”

Saying of her husband: “My wish 
is to die after Karl.
I know no person who can love as he can,
with his whole soul.
Often this love has oppressed me;
I wanted to be free.
But often too it has made me 
so terribly happy.”

She said : “We rowed over to Carrara at dawn,
climbed up to the marble quarries
and rowed back at night. The drops of water
fell like glittering stars
from our oars.”

She said: “As a matter of fact,
I believe
that bisexuality
is almost a necessary factor
in artistic production; at any rate,
the tinge of masculinity within me
helped me
in my work.”

She said : “The only technique I can still manage.
It’s hardly a technique at all, lithography.
In it
only the essentials count.”

A tight-lipped man in a restaurant last night saying to me:
“Kollwitz? She’s too black-and-white.”

III.

Held among wars, watching
all of them
all these people
weavers,
Carmagnole

Looking at
all of them
death, the children
patients in waiting-rooms
famine
the street
the corpse with the baby
floating, on the dark river

A woman seeing
the violent, inexorable
movement of nakedness
and the confession of No
the confession of great weakness, war,
all streaming to one son killed, Peter;
even the son left living; repeated,
the father, the mother; the grandson
another Peter killed in another war; firestorm;
dark, light, as two hands,
this pole and that pole as the gates.

What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life?
The world would split open ….

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I forget how I came across this. I think it is from Beau Sia, spoken word artist. It is marked as such in some years-old electronic file of mine. Strangely, but not without precedent, the internet cannot verify. Source aside, content is cutting.

And content – like cash – is king. Video below.

 

may brought longer days

are you going
to ever sing to me
again?

we have been sorry
for over a year now
and
keep punching
each other
through the bad letters
that we write.

if i ever write more than
a page to you
i know this dumb love
will be resolved
and you will
move here
to live with me.

we just need to pick
a song to call
our song.

and we need to
sleep together
without
thinking of
other people.

get john camey
out of your mind.

in exchange,
you can take off
my ex-girlfriend mask.

-beau sia (probably?)


Update: ErMuhGuh – I think I love Beau Sia. Words, they get me. I laughed, machine-gun rapid and loud, upon hearing, “Do you hear that, my white friend? Now you and your one black friend…”, as below ~3min 20sec. Gotta hear it.

Update 2: It’s a spoof of Jewel’s “May Brought Longer Days”

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This is a bit of a cheat as it is a song, but I just took the words on their own, and they are doing something for me. I suppose I’m a sucker for good words and a story.

the mess inside

we took a weekend, drove to provo.
the snow was white and fluffy.
but a weekend in utah won’t fix what’s wrong with us.
the gray sky was vast and real cryptic above me.
i wanted you to love me like you used to do.

we took two weeks in the bahamas.
went out dancing every night.
tried to fight the creeping sense of dread with temporal things.
most of the time i guess i felt alright.

but i wanted you to love me like you used to do.
but you cannot run and you cannot hide,
from the wreck we’ve made of our house,
and from the mess inside.

we went down to new orleans one weekend in the spring.
looked hard for what we’d lost.
it was painful to admit it, but we couldn’t find a thing.
i wanted you to love me like you used to do.

we went to new york city in september.
took the train out of manhattan to the grand army stop.
found that bench we’d sat together on a thousand years ago
when i felt such love for you i thought my heart was gonna pop.

i wanted you to love me like you used to do.
but i cannot run.
and i can’t hide.
from the wreck we’ve made of our house.
from the mess inside.

~ the mountain goats

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I don’t read a lot that’s not internet news, white papers, or the occasional new novel. I reread a lot of things. I’m pretty utilitarian in my reading these days. I don’t have anything to say about this poem other than, I wanted to share it and to have it for later.

Candles

Days to come stand in front of us
like a row of lighted candles—
golden, warm, and vivid candles.

Days gone by fall behind us,
a gloomy line of of snuffed-out candles;
the nearest are smoking still,
cold, melted, and bent.

I don’t want to look at them: their shape saddens me,
and it saddens me to rememebr their original light.
I look ahead at my lighted candles.

I don’t want to turn for fear of seeing, terrified,
how quickly that dark line gets longer,
how quickly the snuffed-out candles proliferate.

~ C.P. Cavafy

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