And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.
Anaïs Nin
Thursday, January 29, 2009
*
And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to Blossom.
Anaïs Nin
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
fuck
There are people who will tell you
that using the word fuck in a poem
indicates a serious lapse
of taste, or imagination,
or both. It's vulgar,
indecorous, an obscenity
that crashes down like an anvil
falling through a skylight
to land on a restaurant table,
on th white linen, the cut-glass vase of lilacs.
But if you were sitting
over coffee when the metal
hit your saucer like a missile,
wouldn't that be the first thing
you'd say? Wouldn't you leap back
shouting, or at least thinking it,
over and over, bell-note riotously clanging
in the church of your brain
while the solicitous waiter
led you away, wouldn't you prop
your shaking elbows on the bar
and order your first drink in months,
telling yourself you were lucky
to be alive? And if you wouldn't
say anything but Mercy or Oh my
or Land sakes, well then
I don't want to know you anyway
and I don't give a fuck what you think
of my poem. The world is divided
into those whose opinions matter
and those who will never have
a clue, and if you knew
which one you were I could talk
to you, and tell you that sometimes
there's only one word that means
what you need it to mean, the way
there's only one person
when you first fall in love,
or one infant's cry that calls forth
the burning milk, one name
that you pray to when prayer
is what's left to you. I'm saying
in the beginning was the word
and it was good, it meant one human
entering another and it's still
what I love, the word made
flesh. Fuck me, I say to the one
whose lovely body I want close,
and as we fuck I know it's holy,
a psalm, a hymn, a hammer
ringing down on an anvil,
forging a whole new world.
by Kim Addonizio
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Falling in love is like owning a dog
First of all, it's a big responsibility,
especially in a city like New York.
So think long and hard before deciding on love.
On the other hand, love gives you a sense of security:
when you're walking down the street late at night
and you have a leash on love
ain't no one going to mess with you.
Because crooks and muggers think love is unpredictable.
Who knows what love could do in its own defense?
On cold winter nights, love is warm.
It lies between you and lives and breathes
and makes funny noises.
Love wakes you up all hours of the night with its needs.
It needs to be fed so it will grow and stay healthy.
Love doesn't like being left alone for long.
But come home and love is always happy to see you.
It may break a few things accidentally in its passion for life,
but you can never be mad at love for long.
Is love good all the time? No! No!
Love can be bad. Bad, love, bad! Very bad love.
Love makes messes.
Love leaves you little surprises here and there.
Love needs lots of cleaning up after.
Sometimes you just want to get love fixed.
Sometimes you want to roll up a piece of newspaper
and swat love on the nose,
not so much to cause pain,
just to let love know Don't you ever do that again!
Sometimes love just wants to go for a nice long walk.
Because love loves exercise.
It runs you around the block and leaves you panting.
It pulls you in several different directions at once,
or winds around and around you
until you're all wound up and can't move.
But love makes you meet people wherever you go.
People who have nothing in common but love
stop and talk to each other on the street.
Throw things away and love will bring them back,
again, and again, and again.
But most of all, love needs love, lots of it.
And in return, love loves you and never stops.
Taylor Mali
especially in a city like New York.
So think long and hard before deciding on love.
On the other hand, love gives you a sense of security:
when you're walking down the street late at night
and you have a leash on love
ain't no one going to mess with you.
Because crooks and muggers think love is unpredictable.
Who knows what love could do in its own defense?
On cold winter nights, love is warm.
It lies between you and lives and breathes
and makes funny noises.
Love wakes you up all hours of the night with its needs.
It needs to be fed so it will grow and stay healthy.
Love doesn't like being left alone for long.
But come home and love is always happy to see you.
It may break a few things accidentally in its passion for life,
but you can never be mad at love for long.
Is love good all the time? No! No!
Love can be bad. Bad, love, bad! Very bad love.
Love makes messes.
Love leaves you little surprises here and there.
Love needs lots of cleaning up after.
Sometimes you just want to get love fixed.
Sometimes you want to roll up a piece of newspaper
and swat love on the nose,
not so much to cause pain,
just to let love know Don't you ever do that again!
Sometimes love just wants to go for a nice long walk.
Because love loves exercise.
It runs you around the block and leaves you panting.
It pulls you in several different directions at once,
or winds around and around you
until you're all wound up and can't move.
But love makes you meet people wherever you go.
People who have nothing in common but love
stop and talk to each other on the street.
Throw things away and love will bring them back,
again, and again, and again.
But most of all, love needs love, lots of it.
And in return, love loves you and never stops.
Taylor Mali
:)
Friday, January 16, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
*
We live in a modern society. Husbands and wives don't
grow on trees, like in the old days. So where
does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy,
like being unleashed with a credit card
in a department store of kisses. There's the first kiss.
The sloppy kiss. The peck.
The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we
shouldn't be doing this kiss. The but your lips
taste so good kiss.
The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss.
The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss.
The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad
sometimes kiss. The I know
your tongue like the back of my hand kiss. As you get
older, kisses become scarce. You'll be driving
home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road,
with its purple thumb out. If you
were younger, you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's
red door just to see how it fits. Oh where
does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile.
Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.
Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss.
Now what? Don't invite the kiss over
and answer the door in your underwear. It'll get suspicious
and stare at your toes. Don't water the kiss with whisky. It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters,
but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of
your body without saying good-bye,
and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left
on the inside of your mouth. You must
nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it
illuminates the room. Hold it to your chest
and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a
special beach. Place it on the tongue's pillow,
then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath
a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.
But one kiss levitates above all the others. The
intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss.
The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss.
Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth,
like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.
Jeffrey McDaniel
does one find love? When you're sixteen it's easy,
like being unleashed with a credit card
in a department store of kisses. There's the first kiss.
The sloppy kiss. The peck.
The sympathy kiss. The backseat smooch. The we
shouldn't be doing this kiss. The but your lips
taste so good kiss.
The bury me in an avalanche of tingles kiss.
The I wish you'd quit smoking kiss.
The I accept your apology, but you make me really mad
sometimes kiss. The I know
your tongue like the back of my hand kiss. As you get
older, kisses become scarce. You'll be driving
home and see a damaged kiss on the side of the road,
with its purple thumb out. If you
were younger, you'd pull over, slide open the mouth's
red door just to see how it fits. Oh where
does one find love? If you rub two glances, you get a smile.
Rub two smiles, you get a warm feeling.
Rub two warm feelings and presto-you have a kiss.
Now what? Don't invite the kiss over
and answer the door in your underwear. It'll get suspicious
and stare at your toes. Don't water the kiss with whisky. It'll turn bright pink and explode into a thousand luscious splinters,
but in the morning it'll be ashamed and sneak out of
your body without saying good-bye,
and you'll remember that kiss forever by all the little cuts it left
on the inside of your mouth. You must
nurture the kiss. Turn out the lights. Notice how it
illuminates the room. Hold it to your chest
and wonder if the sand inside hourglasses comes from a
special beach. Place it on the tongue's pillow,
then look up the first recorded kiss in an encyclopedia: beneath
a Babylonian olive tree in 1200 B.C.
But one kiss levitates above all the others. The
intersection of function and desire. The I do kiss.
The I'll love you through a brick wall kiss.
Even when I'm dead, I'll swim through the Earth,
like a mermaid of the soil, just to be next to your bones.
Jeffrey McDaniel
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
To Eve
Yesterday when I woke up
I was deep in the forest.
Night was preying on me.
I was ecstatic because earlier
I had promised to meet God
by the Falls, something he's been
wanting to show me. So I stood
up and shook off the stray leaves
from my hair and peeled off
the grass that had stuck to my skin.
I ran quickly past the bushes and thorns
past the maple trees and the apples
through the mud-streams and pools
and meadows of wind-grass and birds
until I came upon a clearing
and so I stopped. Then, my heart
began. It began to beat as I was
nearing the Falls, wading through
the feral water and fog. I saw
your shadow behind the falling flood,
then your body below the surface
swimming toward me. Your hair,
dark and wild. Slowly, you rose
from the mist. Then, my heart
began.
To Adam
It was summer and hot outside.
We wanted to visit the Park
but everybody was there, and so
in our living room we opened
the windows to let the wind in,
moved the chairs to the side, and
covered the floor with tablecloth,
our picnic basket full of the things
that you loved. I didn't know
how to cook, I lied, so when you said
you'd like to marry the woman
who baked the pie you were eating
I looked away, imagining how
the maid would run away with you
in the middle of the night,
lifting the skirt of her bridal gown
over the mud-pools in the woods.
Do you remember? You were asking
if I was hungry. I was thinking about
how the two of you would make love
in a little cabin outside town. I didn't
like the flavor, anyway. I said
no.
To the Snake
There is a reason Adam cannot match
your length. And you see this?
I want you to peddle this red
metaphor to somebody who'd
happen to pass by this tree
late in the afternoon, crying about
something. Tell her how beautiful
she is. Tell her how this garden
has a fence around it, that there could be
other men outside. Tell her
you love her. This is what you do:
Wait in this tree. Think about
suffering, the first suffering, you.
Hide in the branches. She will come
before the air darkens. Smell for her,
her smell like flesh and water-flowers.
Be ready to strike. She's a wild
creature. Watch yourself, the plan
is to make her fall in love with you
not you with her. The moment
your heart begins beating,
you will know she's around.
Gather yourself. Then, you
strike.
by Arkaye Kierulf
Sunday, January 11, 2009
*
Crisp is to the apple what
flexed is to the body.
Poor apple.
Being bitten is to the crisp apple
what walking is to the ripe body, but it's more complicated than that:
the apple of the face has been given
to the running juice of the body
and the body, which is often gracious,
makes it shine.
Lucky apple.
Having a core is to the apple
what having a core is to the body, city, method, circumstance, endeavor.
Having a core is flower-shaped and hurts
in the way that having a shape hurts, which is to say
it hurts ironically, because to have limits
is not just to make a declaration upon a mountainside,
it is also to be the mountainside. Having a flowering core
also hurts in the way that being flower-like always hurts,
which is to say sexually, as if the whole self
has exceeded the skin, which it hasn't, which means
we always seem to be opening but never ever do.
Both these types of suffering color the air
when we pause to have them. The affected atoms
are hard to see amongst the billions
of sofa atoms, newsprint atoms
but, like the illnesses in the crystalline sea, they are there.
Red apple sliced, quartered, salted. Green apple,
alone in the basket.
Anything left on the shelf becomes weak,
suggestible, vulnerable to other shapes, hungry to be refilled
by something other than itself,
a poison apple.
The joining we do with others needs containing.
Apple pie.
Imagine the mess. Imagine a finger touching the sack of the heart.
Imagine being stopped, controlled that powerfully.
Imagine nothing like that being possible. Nothing ever stopping you
at the root of the breath. Huge apple.
The world in reference to you. How you move. Time a backdrop.
Or close the other eye: you in reference to the world.
How it varies and happens simultaneously.
Good morning.
Little apple.
Catie Rosemurgy
flexed is to the body.
Poor apple.
Being bitten is to the crisp apple
what walking is to the ripe body, but it's more complicated than that:
the apple of the face has been given
to the running juice of the body
and the body, which is often gracious,
makes it shine.
Lucky apple.
Having a core is to the apple
what having a core is to the body, city, method, circumstance, endeavor.
Having a core is flower-shaped and hurts
in the way that having a shape hurts, which is to say
it hurts ironically, because to have limits
is not just to make a declaration upon a mountainside,
it is also to be the mountainside. Having a flowering core
also hurts in the way that being flower-like always hurts,
which is to say sexually, as if the whole self
has exceeded the skin, which it hasn't, which means
we always seem to be opening but never ever do.
Both these types of suffering color the air
when we pause to have them. The affected atoms
are hard to see amongst the billions
of sofa atoms, newsprint atoms
but, like the illnesses in the crystalline sea, they are there.
Red apple sliced, quartered, salted. Green apple,
alone in the basket.
Anything left on the shelf becomes weak,
suggestible, vulnerable to other shapes, hungry to be refilled
by something other than itself,
a poison apple.
The joining we do with others needs containing.
Apple pie.
Imagine the mess. Imagine a finger touching the sack of the heart.
Imagine being stopped, controlled that powerfully.
Imagine nothing like that being possible. Nothing ever stopping you
at the root of the breath. Huge apple.
The world in reference to you. How you move. Time a backdrop.
Or close the other eye: you in reference to the world.
How it varies and happens simultaneously.
Good morning.
Little apple.
Catie Rosemurgy
Friday, January 9, 2009
like this
If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,
Like this.
When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,
Like this?
If anyone wants to know what "spirit" is,
or what "God's fragrance" means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.
Like this.
When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.
Like this?
If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don't try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.
Like this. Like this.
When someone asks what it means
to "die for love," point
here.
If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.
This tall.
The soul sometimes leaves the body, then returns.
When someone doesn't believe that,
walk back into my house.
Like this.
When lovers moan,
they're telling our story.
Like this.
I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.
Like this.
When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.
Like this.
How did Joseph's scent come to Jacob?
Huuuu.
How did Jacob's sight return?
Huuuuu.
A little wind cleans the eyes.
Like this.
When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he'll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us.
Like this.
Rumi
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,
Like this.
When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,
Like this?
If anyone wants to know what "spirit" is,
or what "God's fragrance" means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.
Like this.
When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.
Like this?
If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don't try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.
Like this. Like this.
When someone asks what it means
to "die for love," point
here.
If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.
This tall.
The soul sometimes leaves the body, then returns.
When someone doesn't believe that,
walk back into my house.
Like this.
When lovers moan,
they're telling our story.
Like this.
I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.
Like this.
When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.
Like this.
How did Joseph's scent come to Jacob?
Huuuu.
How did Jacob's sight return?
Huuuuu.
A little wind cleans the eyes.
Like this.
When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he'll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us.
Like this.
Rumi
***
seems like it snows everywhere. everywhere but here. and i want it. i want it so much. almond trees can promise all the white confetti in the world, i will not listen. i am longing for snow. falling softly and silently. dancing and twirling, my dear.... snow on snow on snow
Thursday, January 8, 2009
"Horses"
I believe in trees.
I believe in birds that live in trees.
I believe that behind every one bird is a sky forever expanding.
I believe all windows look out to the same sky.
I believe in keeping secrets.
I believe there is sincerity in lies.
I believe when the lights go off the furniture keep to their places.
I believe in faith.
I believe that if you believe hard enough you will soon enough be saved.
I believe in walls. That we need them.
I believe in open spaces, that we need them more.
I believe once in a while we crave loneliness.
I believe we need sadness.
I believe in the soft cave of the mouth, in what it has to say, savage and comforting.
I believe in roads and streets, that they lead to ruins.
I believe violence is a plea for mercy.
I believe in the heart's destructive implosions.
I believe behind every painting or picture is a white canvass, complete in itself.
I believe philosophy is difficult and silly; I prefer instead small delicate things like a knife.
I believe Plato's forms do not exist.
I believe behind every space is just another space, and behind that just more space, and so on.
I believe in clouds.
I believe in the divinity of clouds.
I believe mathematics is useless and noble.
I believe in numbers.
I believe that behind all distance is an admission of connectedness, that all space admits of openings.
I believe that everything is open.
I believe inside every mind is an open gun waiting to go off.
I believe the mind is a gun.
I believe behind every face is another face is another face.
I believe some of us would like to be saints but cannot.
I believe some women are virgins.
I believe some women would like to be virgins.
I believe in the inviolable and the insane.
I believe in the quiet dignity of horses.
I believe in the benefits of buying a house.
I believe every house should be surrounded by trees.
I believe in this century, that it is not yet over, that we are on the verge of yet another discovery
I believe our many voices thin out into only one voice.
I believe in the end, but only if it fuels the past to continue expanding.
I believe in the layering of clothes, one on top of another, in the Victorian style.
I believe in skirts and lingerie and long black hair and virtue.
I believe in sin.
I believe in the woman under the man and vice versa.
I believe in the invisible hand, in the wind that lifts the bird and elevates the sky.
I believe in love without proof.
I believe in landscapes.
I believe that behind all love is all love itself, pure and soft and intense.
I believe in things so huge we forget what they're about and why.
I believe in things so small that it's taken us all these years to realize we've seen nothing.
by Arkaye Kierulf
I believe in birds that live in trees.
I believe that behind every one bird is a sky forever expanding.
I believe all windows look out to the same sky.
I believe in keeping secrets.
I believe there is sincerity in lies.
I believe when the lights go off the furniture keep to their places.
I believe in faith.
I believe that if you believe hard enough you will soon enough be saved.
I believe in walls. That we need them.
I believe in open spaces, that we need them more.
I believe once in a while we crave loneliness.
I believe we need sadness.
I believe in the soft cave of the mouth, in what it has to say, savage and comforting.
I believe in roads and streets, that they lead to ruins.
I believe violence is a plea for mercy.
I believe in the heart's destructive implosions.
I believe behind every painting or picture is a white canvass, complete in itself.
I believe philosophy is difficult and silly; I prefer instead small delicate things like a knife.
I believe Plato's forms do not exist.
I believe behind every space is just another space, and behind that just more space, and so on.
I believe in clouds.
I believe in the divinity of clouds.
I believe mathematics is useless and noble.
I believe in numbers.
I believe that behind all distance is an admission of connectedness, that all space admits of openings.
I believe that everything is open.
I believe inside every mind is an open gun waiting to go off.
I believe the mind is a gun.
I believe behind every face is another face is another face.
I believe some of us would like to be saints but cannot.
I believe some women are virgins.
I believe some women would like to be virgins.
I believe in the inviolable and the insane.
I believe in the quiet dignity of horses.
I believe in the benefits of buying a house.
I believe every house should be surrounded by trees.
I believe in this century, that it is not yet over, that we are on the verge of yet another discovery
I believe our many voices thin out into only one voice.
I believe in the end, but only if it fuels the past to continue expanding.
I believe in the layering of clothes, one on top of another, in the Victorian style.
I believe in skirts and lingerie and long black hair and virtue.
I believe in sin.
I believe in the woman under the man and vice versa.
I believe in the invisible hand, in the wind that lifts the bird and elevates the sky.
I believe in love without proof.
I believe in landscapes.
I believe that behind all love is all love itself, pure and soft and intense.
I believe in things so huge we forget what they're about and why.
I believe in things so small that it's taken us all these years to realize we've seen nothing.
by Arkaye Kierulf
Crisp is to the apple what
flexed is to the body.
Poor apple.
Being bitten is to the crisp apple
what walking is to the ripe body, but it's more complicated than that:
the apple of the face has been given
to the running juice of the body
and the body, which is often gracious,
makes it shine.
Lucky apple.
Having a core is to the apple
what having a core is to the body, city, method, circumstance, endeavor.
Having a core is flower-shaped and hurts
in the way that having a shape hurts, which is to say
it hurts ironically, because to have limits
is not just to make a declaration upon a mountainside,
it is also to be the mountainside. Having a flowering core
also hurts in the way that being flower-like always hurts,
which is to say sexually, as if the whole self
has exceeded the skin, which it hasn't, which means
we always seem to be opening but never ever do.
Both these types of suffering color the air
when we pause to have them. The affected atoms
are hard to see amongst the billions
of sofa atoms, newsprint atoms
but, like the illnesses in the crystalline sea, they are there.
Red apple sliced, quartered, salted. Green apple,
alone in the basket.
Anything left on the shelf becomes weak,
suggestible, vulnerable to other shapes, hungry to be refilled
by something other than itself,
a poison apple.
The joining we do with others needs containing.
Apple pie.
Imagine the mess. Imagine a finger touching the sack of the heart.
Imagine being stopped, controlled that powerfully.
Imagine nothing like that being possible. Nothing ever stopping you
at the root of the breath. Huge apple.
The world in reference to you. How you move. Time a backdrop.
Or close the other eye: you in reference to the world.
How it varies and happens simultaneously.
Good morning.
Little apple.
Catie Rosemurgy
flexed is to the body.
Poor apple.
Being bitten is to the crisp apple
what walking is to the ripe body, but it's more complicated than that:
the apple of the face has been given
to the running juice of the body
and the body, which is often gracious,
makes it shine.
Lucky apple.
Having a core is to the apple
what having a core is to the body, city, method, circumstance, endeavor.
Having a core is flower-shaped and hurts
in the way that having a shape hurts, which is to say
it hurts ironically, because to have limits
is not just to make a declaration upon a mountainside,
it is also to be the mountainside. Having a flowering core
also hurts in the way that being flower-like always hurts,
which is to say sexually, as if the whole self
has exceeded the skin, which it hasn't, which means
we always seem to be opening but never ever do.
Both these types of suffering color the air
when we pause to have them. The affected atoms
are hard to see amongst the billions
of sofa atoms, newsprint atoms
but, like the illnesses in the crystalline sea, they are there.
Red apple sliced, quartered, salted. Green apple,
alone in the basket.
Anything left on the shelf becomes weak,
suggestible, vulnerable to other shapes, hungry to be refilled
by something other than itself,
a poison apple.
The joining we do with others needs containing.
Apple pie.
Imagine the mess. Imagine a finger touching the sack of the heart.
Imagine being stopped, controlled that powerfully.
Imagine nothing like that being possible. Nothing ever stopping you
at the root of the breath. Huge apple.
The world in reference to you. How you move. Time a backdrop.
Or close the other eye: you in reference to the world.
How it varies and happens simultaneously.
Good morning.
Little apple.
Catie Rosemurgy
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
best soundtrack to walk the dog down the sea-side, drink hot chocolate by the fireplace, make cookies and love, paint round things, stare into the rainy night and imagine you near
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