Words.

[jeninifer]

I love words. Quotes. Poems. Prose.

Share your favorite words with me.

What Work Is

BY PHILIP LEVINE

We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is—if you’re
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it’s someone else’s brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours of wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, “No,
we’re not hiring today,” for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who’s not beside you or behind or
ahead because he’s home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you’re too young or too dumb,
not because you’re jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don’t know what work is.

 

[BradBigBrain]

"Worms, Roxanne, I'm afraid of worms."

 

[Trixareforkids]

Why Rimbaud Went to Africa
David Lerner

poetry isn't literary
poetry isn't sure which fork to
use
poetry can't name the parts of speech
fill out a grant application
logroll

poetry doesn't like cappuccino
poetry doesn't want to be printed in a
small press edition with its name on the
cover and get reviewed in 2 little magazines
read by 3 people
argued over by 8

poetry doesn't care about glory
glory is nice but poetry figures it's
dessert
poetry doesn't want to get laid
poetry might want to get drunk but
that's only self defense

poetry doesn't want to traipse around Europe
and collect stray bits of wisdom
from ruined empires
that it can show like slides when it gets home
poetry has a headache

poetry is a better slingshot
a war you can carry in your pocket
a better way to die
that kind of fire that never goes out
and never gives an inch

poetry wants to be on every street corner
hissing from the cracks in the sidewalks
from the columns of print in the newspapers
on the lips of people on the buses going to their
miserable jobs in the morning

poetry wants to be
in the prayers of dogs and the
screams of acrobats
in the terror of politicians
and the dreams of beautiful women

poetry wants to be
an eye through which the world will see itself and
tremble

poetry doesn't want to
die in the gutter
it already knows how

poetry doesn't want to sparechange strolling professors
and millionaires
wear anything but blood

have conversations with college students about
the meaning of life

because a band wind is coming
you can smell it in the air

the pollution of the cities
mixed with the odor of rotting souls

the wind will climb

it will have little sense of humor
it will not want cappuccino
or reviews
or girlfriends
or anything else

except the death of
everything we love

 

[GothAngelBabe]

words mean nothing, if there is nothing to back them up,

 

[Miles Long]

Moist crease

 

[Wild_Honey_66]

"Worms, Roxanne, I'm afraid of worms."

Moist crease

moist plinth

 

[jeninifer]

Moist crease

Gah! No!

Do. Not. Love.

 

[mysterydrink]

Gah! No!

Do. Not. Love.

Coulda been worse. He coulda said...*leans close to whisper breathily in her ear*

damp.

 

[Trixareforkids]

From Revolutionary Letter
Diane DiPrima

I have just realized that the stakes are myself
I have no other
ransom money, nothing to break or barter but my life
my spirit measured out, in bits, spread over
the roulette table, I recoup what I can
nothing else to shove under the nose of the maitre de jeu
nothing to thrust out the window, no white flag
this flesh all I have to offer, to make the play with
this immediate head, what it comes up with, my move
as we slither over this Go bard, stepping always
(we hope) between the lines

 

[jeninifer]

Phenomenal Woman

BY MAYA ANGELOU

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms,
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please,
And to a man,
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees.
Then they swarm around me,
A hive of honey bees.
I say,
It’s the fire in my eyes,
And the flash of my teeth,
The swing in my waist,
And the joy in my feet.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me.
They try so much
But they can’t touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them,
They say they still can’t see.
I say,
It’s in the arch of my back,
The sun of my smile,
The ride of my breasts,
The grace of my style.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

Now you understand
Just why my head’s not bowed.
I don’t shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud.
When you see me passing,
It ought to make you proud.
I say,
It’s in the click of my heels,
The bend of my hair,
the palm of my hand,
The need for my care.
’Cause I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.

 

[jeninifer]

Coulda been worse. He coulda said...*leans close to whisper breathily in her ear*

damp.

Oh fuck off you cheeky bastard. lol

 

[37_ttej]

Mother of this unfathomable world!
Favor my solemn song, for I have loved
Thee ever, and thee only; I have watched
Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps,
And my heart ever gazes on the depth
Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed
In charnels and on coffins, where black death
Keeps record of the trophies won from thee,
Hoping to still these obstinate questionings
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost,
Thy messenger, to render up the tale
Of what we are. In lone and silent hours,
When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness,
Like an inspired and desperate alchemist
Staking his very life on some dark hope,
Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks
With my most innocent love, until strange tears,
Uniting with those breathless kisses, made
Such magic as compels the charmèd night
To render up thy charge; and, though ne'er yet
Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary,
Enough from incommunicable dream,
And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought,
Has shone within me, that serenely now
And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre
Suspended in the solitary dome
Of some mysterious and deserted fane,
I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain
May modulate with murmurs of the air,
And motions of the forests and the sea,
And voice of living beings, and woven hymn
Of night and day, and the deep heart of man.

from Alastor: or, The Spirit of Solitude by Percy Shelley

 

[Trixareforkids]

Maura O'Conner, from At The End


and days where getting out of bed was like taking the last

four steps to the guillotine​

 

[Trixareforkids]

Mike Golden, from Lungs of Glass

Can you see the vulnerability
through the lens: Life is
like this mirror
we look through
the other side of our desire
and hang out
wanting ourselves, our
coolest possible selves
to spit in the face of the void
like it means nothing,
nada, bitch,
not a thing.

 

[Trixareforkids]

"The clock is lopping of the heads of seconds on its tiny chopping block" John Bennett

 

[jeninifer]

“The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
They're in each other all along.”
― Rumi, The Illuminated Rumi

 

[Miles Long]

Gah! No!

Do. Not. Love.

What's wrong with moist crease?

 

[37_ttej]

What's wrong with moist crease?

That goes with the expression 'rich crease' doesn't it?

Or is that 'as rich as Croesus'? I forget which. Either way I'm sure Croesus enjoyed many rich, moist, creases.

 

[BradBigBrain]

If I Found a Wistful Unicorn by Ann Ashford and Bill Drath:

"If I found a wistful unicorn, and brought him to you all forlorn...
Would you pet him?

If I took an empty midnight train across the country in the rain...
Would you meet me?

If I picked a little flower up and put it in a paper cup...
Would you smell it?

If I found a secret place to go, with you the only one to know...
Would you be there?

If my cricket coughed and got the flu, and needed warmth and comfort too...
Would you hold him?

If my rainbow were to turn all gray, and wouldn't shine at all today...
Would you paint it?

If my soul were feeling all alone and wasn't near a telephone...
Would you write to it?

If my clock developed nervous strain, and needed help to "tock" again...
Would you fix it?

If I were to dance for you, as hard as that would be to do...
Would you watch me?

If my pet turnip turned on me, and bit me fiercely on the knee...
Would you bandage it?

If my nightingale were a monotone and much too shy to sing alone,
Would you hum with him?

If all that I would want to do would be to sit and talk to you...
Would you listen?

If any of these things you'll do, I'll never have to say to you...
Do you love me?"