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Old 08-23-2014, 04:29 PM   #1
Fata Morgana
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Snow and Dirty Rain

Close your eyes. A lover is standing too close
to focus on. Leave me blurry and fall toward me
with your entire body. Lie under the covers, pretending
to sleep, while I'm in the other room. Imagine
my legs crossed, my hair combed, the shine of my boots
in the slatted light. I'm thinking My plant, his chair,
the ashtray that we bought together. I'm thinking This is where
we live.
When we were little we made houses out of
cardboard boxes. We can do anything. It's not because
our hearts are large, they're not, it's what we
struggle with. The attempt to say Come over. Bring
your friends. It's a potluck, I'm making pork chops, I'm making
those long noodles you love so much
. My dragonfly,
my black-eyed fire, the knives in the kitchen are singing
for blood, but we are the crossroads, my little outlaw,
and this is the map of my heart, the landscape
after cruelty which is, of course, a garden, which is
a tenderness, which is a room, a lover saying Hold me
tight, it's getting cold.
We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence, but despite
the abundance of it. The lawn drowned, the sky on fire,
the gold light falling backward through the glass
of every room. I'll give you my heart to make a place
for it to happen, evidence of a love that transcends hunger.
Is that too much to expect? That I would name the stars
for you? That I would take you there? The splash
of my tongue melting you like a sugar cube? We've read
the back of the book, we know what's going to happen.
The fields burned, the land destroyed, the lovers left
broken in the brown dirt. And then's it's gone.
Makes you sad. All your friends are gone. Goodbye
Goodbye. No more tears. I would like to meet you all
in Heaven. But there's a litany of dreams that happens
somewhere in the middle. Moonlight spilling
on the bathroom floor. A page of the book where we
transcend the story of our lives, past the taco stands
and record stores. Moonlight making crosses
on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one.
We have been very brave, we have wanted to know
the worst, wanted the curtain to be lifted from our eyes.
This dream going on with all of us in it. Penciling in
the bighearted slob. Penciling in his outstrechted arms.
Our father who art in Heaven. Our father who art buried
in the yard
. Someone is digging your grave right now.
Someone is drawing a bath to wash you clean, he said,
so think of the wind, so happy, so warm. It's a fairy tale,
the story underneath the story, sliding down the polished
halls, lightning here and gone. We make these
ridiculous idols so we can to what's behind them,
but what happens after we get up the ladder?
Do we simply stare at what's horrible and forgive it?
Here is the river, and here is the box, and here are
the monsters we put in the box to test our strength
against. Here is the cake, and here is the fork, and here's
the desire to put it inside us, and then the question
behind every question: What happens next?
The way you slam your body into mine reminds me
I'm alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling,
and they're only a few steps behind you, finding
the flaw, the poor weld, the place where we weren't
stitched up quite right, the place they could almost
slip right into through if the skin wasn't trying to
keep them out, to keep them here, on the other side
of the theater where the curtain keeps rising.
I crawled out the window and ran into the woods.
I had to make up all the words myself. The way
they taste, the wy they sound in the air. I passed
through the narrow gate, stumbled in, stumbled
around for a while, and stumbled back out. I made
this place for you. A place for to love me.
If this isn't a kingdom then I don't know what is.
So how would you catalog it? Dawn in the fields?
Snow and dirty rain? Light brought in in buckets?
I was trying to describe the kingdom, but the letters
kept smudging as I wrote them: the hunter's heart,
the hunter's mouth, the trees and the trees and the
space between the trees, swimming in gold. The words
frozen. The creatures frozen. The plum sauce
leaking out of the bag. Explaining will get us nowhere.
I was away, I don't know where, lying on the floor,
pretending I was dead. I wanted to hurt you
but the victory is that I could not stomach it. We have
swallowed him up,
they said. It's beautiful. It really is.
I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room
where everyone finally gets what they want.
You said Tell me about your books, your visions made
of flesh and light
and I said This is the Moon. This is
the Sun. Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you
there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar
cube...
We were in the gold room where everyone
finally gets what they want, so I said What do you
want, sweetheart?
and you said Kiss me. Here I am
leaving you clues. I am singing now while Rome
burns. We are all just trying to be holy. My applejack,
my silent night, just mash your lips against me.
We are all going forward. None of us are going back.


Richard Siken
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Old 08-23-2014, 04:30 PM   #2
Fata Morgana
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I love this poem, it's one of my favourites. The last lines from we were in the gold room onward give me goosebumps.

Show me poetry that gives you goosebumps.
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Old 08-23-2014, 04:33 PM   #3
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Chlamydia Fortesque-Smythe View Post
We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back
to the hero's shoulders and the gentleness that comes,
not from the absence of violence, but despite
the abundance of it.
that line there *sigh*
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Old 08-23-2014, 04:58 PM   #4
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this gives me goosebumps because

the final lines. how awful for a relationship to become this.

http://forum.literotica.com/showpost...&postcount=310
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What strange machinery lies between her ears
HarryHill


'tender hearted...
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Old 08-23-2014, 05:02 PM   #5
Fata Morgana
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Quote:
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the final lines. how awful for a relationship to become this.

http://forum.literotica.com/showpost...&postcount=310
Yes. I once knew a man with stumps.
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Old 08-23-2014, 05:13 PM   #6
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Poetry can have many forms. I once dated a woman named Lauren. Whenever she said " Fuck me now" it gave me goose bumps. She was poetry in motion. Does that count? Well it's my contribution anyway.

Last edited by BBG1970 : 08-23-2014 at 05:17 PM.
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Old 08-23-2014, 05:20 PM   #7
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Quote:
Originally Posted by BBG1970 View Post
Poetry can have many forms. I once dated a woman named Lauren. Whenever she said " Fuck me now" it gave me goose bumps. She was poetry in motion. Does that count? Well it's my contribution anyway.
I'm sobbing now. That's fucking beautiful man.
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Old 08-23-2014, 05:28 PM   #8
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I'm sobbing now. That's fucking beautiful man.
Well it's all your fault, peeling onions while you post .
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Old 08-23-2014, 05:32 PM   #9
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It's prose, not poetry, but these couple of lines from LotR always gives me goosebumps when ever I read them:

’Death! Death! Death! Death take us all! Death!
Ride, Ride to ruin and the world’s ending!’

Then all the host of Rohan began to move, and they did not sing, but shouted ’Death!’ with one voice great and terrible.
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Old 08-26-2014, 09:30 AM   #10
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In jelly jars I own my bones
like berries sunk in purple sap,
the apple whittled to a moon,
or citrus pared to syruped pulp.

I spread my ease like marmalade
across the joists and joints of men,
my honey skin and velvet nap
moves autumnal over them.

I harvest both their fruit and root
and mull October pungent mead,
twilights thick perennial ache
a brew of darkly wintered wine

Kim Welliver
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Old 08-26-2014, 09:31 AM   #11
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The Names of Snow

Of course we know how our language lacks:
it’s a tangle of tenses and borrowed words, irregular
verbs and mixed constructions. Everything dangles
and we only have one word for love, a lament in itself,

echoed in every valentine. But think of all the other words
that hold up their hundred definitions: sky, wish, tree.
Or snow. There is sleet and freezing rain, hail
and “wintry mix,” according to our Pennsylvania weatherman.

We lay adjectives before nouns like gifts, hoping
when we say them aloud we’ll have made a new word,
when all we really want is more ways to say snow:
powder snow, flying snow, cotton snow.

As in Hokkaido, with such storms and so many names:
a light sprinkling of snow, snow at the foot of a tree, beautiful morning
after a heavy snow. Names for snow we’ve never seen:
one or two characters holding the world complete. As it is,

all the unknown words trail behind our thoughts, never
catching up. Still, I bless and keep my mother tongue,
even as I miss the words for everything that falls: night,
water, father. Perhaps it’s not the words I miss

because I could just say “peony-flake snow.”
But what if you did not know the heavy skirts
those flowers wear in early June?
Therein lies our sadness, the quiet in our mouths.

Katherine Bode-Lang
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Old 08-26-2014, 09:42 AM   #12
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he was a handsome man
and what I want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death

e.e. cummings
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Old 08-26-2014, 09:50 AM   #13
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Old 08-26-2014, 10:02 AM   #14
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Christ don't pick up a book for fuck sake, you'll have a stroke!
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Old 08-26-2014, 10:09 AM   #15
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Christ don't pick up a book for fuck sake, you'll have a stroke!

I don't read them kinda books, Dr. Seuss or nothing for me.
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Old 08-26-2014, 10:47 AM   #16
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Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
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Old 11-07-2014, 01:22 PM   #17
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One for Phelia

There is a blacksmith,
and there is a shepherd,
and there is a butcher-boy,
and there is a barber, who's cutting
and cutting away at my only joy.
I saw a rabbit,
as slick as a knife,
and as pale as a candlestick,
and I had thought it'd be harder to do,
but I caught her, and skinned her quick:
held her there,
kicking and mewling,
upended, unspooling, unsung and blue;
told her "wherever you go,
little runaway bunny,
I will find you."
And then she ran,
as they're liable to do.

Be at peace, baby, and begone.

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Old 11-07-2014, 01:23 PM   #18
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The stars were wild that summer evening
As on the low lake shore stood you and I
And every time I caught your flashing eye
Or heard your voice discourse on anything
It seemed a star went burning down the sky.

I looked into your heart that dying summer
And found your silent woman's heart grown wild
Whereupon you turned to me and smiled
Saying you felt afraid but that you were
Weary of being mute and undefiled

I spoke to you that last winter morning
Watching the wind smoke snow across the ice
Told of how the beauty of your spirit, flesh,
And smile had made day break at night and spring
Burst beauty in the wasting winter's place.

You did not answer when I spoke, but stood
As if that wistful part of you, your sorrow,
Were blown about in fitful winds below;
Your eyes replied your worn heart wished it could
Again be white and silent as the snow.

Galway Kinnell
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Old 11-07-2014, 01:26 PM   #19
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For you I undress down to the sheaths of my nerves.
I remove my jewelry and set it on the nightstand,
I unhook my ribs, spread my lungs flat on a chair.
I disolve like a remedy in water, in wine.
I spill without staining, and leave without stirring the air.
I do it for love. For love, I disappear.

Kim Addonizio
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Old 11-07-2014, 01:28 PM   #20
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Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks best;
And I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal
Surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries
Or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
Of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing
Give me the lover who yanks open the door
Of his house and presses me to the wall
In the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I'm drenched
And shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
And begin their delicious diaspora
Through the cities and small towns of my body
To hell with the saints, with martyrs
Of my childhood meant to instruct me
In the power of endurance and faith
To hell with the next world and its pallid angels
Swooning and sighing like Victorian girls
I want this world. I want to walk into
The ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
Like I'm nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass
And I want to resist it. I want to go
Staggering and flailing my way
Through the bars and back rooms
Through the gleaming hotels and weedy
Lots of abandoned sunflowers and the parks
Where dogs are let off their leashes
In spite of the signs, where they sniff each
Other and roll together in the grass, I want to
Lie down somewhere and suffer for love until
It nearly kills me, and then I want to get up again
And put on that little black dress and wait
For you, yes you, to come over here
And get down on your knees and tell me
Just how fucking good I look.

Kim Addonizio
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Old 11-07-2014, 01:29 PM   #21
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From behind he looks like a man
I once loved, that hang dog slouch
to his jeans, a sweater vest, his neck
thick veined as a horse cock, a halo
of chopped curls.
He orders coffee and searches
his pockets, first in front, then
from behind, a long finger sliding
into the slitted denim like that man
slipped his thumb into me one summer
as we lay after love, our freckled
bodies two plump starfish on the sheets.
Semen leaked and pooled in his palm
as he moved his thumb slowly, not
to excite me, just to affirm
he’d been there.
I have loved other men since, taken
them into my mouth like a warm vowel,
lay beneath them and watched their irises
float like small worlds in their opened eyes.
But this man pressed his thumb
toward the tail of my spine
like he was entering
China, or a ripe papaya
so that now when I think of love,
I think of this.

Dorianne Laux
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Old 11-07-2014, 01:30 PM   #22
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The man I love hates technology, hates
that he’s forced to use it: telephones
and microfilm, air conditioning,
car radios and the occasional fax.
He wishes he lived in the old world,
sitting on a stump carving a clothespin
or a spoon. He wants to go back, slip
like lint into his great-great-grandfather’s
pocket, reborn as a pilgrim, a peasant,
a dirt farmer hoeing his uneven rows.
He walks when he can, through the hills
behind his house, his dogs panting beside him
like small steam engines. He’s delighted
by the sun’s slow and simple
descent, the complicated machinery
of his own body. I would have loved him
in any era, in any dark age; I would take him
into the twilight and unwind him, slide
my fingers through his hair and pull him
to his knees. As it is, this afternoon, late
in the twentieth century, I sit on a chair
in the kitchen with my keys in my lap, pressing
the black buttons on the answering machine
over and over, listening to his message,
his voice strung along the wires outside my window
where the birds balance themselves
and stare off into the trees, thinking
even in the farthest future, in the most
distant universe, I would have recognized
this voice, refracted, as it would be, like light
from some small, uncharted star.

Dorianne Laux
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Old 11-07-2014, 01:31 PM   #23
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You sure know a lot of that fancy talk.
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Old 11-07-2014, 01:32 PM   #24
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You sure know a lot of that fancy talk.
I love dark poetry.
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Old 11-07-2014, 02:01 PM   #25
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A starling with no feet
eats at my table: a few crumbs, dried cranberries.
Where does it get me,
my foolish pity?
Intentional or not, you stepped
in death’s way.
A bone-white edge, the near perfect
fit of broken things.
Too late for lessons now. A blackbird spoke
because you asked.
It’s hope that does me in: the place
the voice breaks.
What’s left? A kind of grace:
a perilous landing.


Eve Joseph
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