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decemberthirtyOkay, I really don't ever do stuff like this, but I've been seeing the poem meme that's been going around, and I couldn't resist. I really do love poetry, and I don't read it often enough. So here's my poem:
Snow-Hole
Falling asleep in the snowscape of the big double bed
I wrap my hand around your hand until they catch fire
And the snow begins to melt and we sink down and down,
The fire and ourselves, how many feet below the morning.
Should the fire burn out at the bottom of the snow-hole,
Smoke will escape up the glass chimney into the bedroom.
--Michael Longley
And because I went looking through all my poetry to find something to post, and it's far too hard to choose just one, here are a few
its happenin/ but you dont know abt it
these kisses are clandestine
no one can see them
i hold them in my hand
shd i be discovered/
i stick them in my hair & my head gets hot
so i haveta excuse myself
under no circumstances
can the legs that slip over my hips
leave tellin marks/ scents
of love/ this wd be unpardonable
so i am all the time
rubbin my arms/ exposin myself
to river mists/ to mask the sweetness
you leave me swillin in
i cant allow you to look at me
how you do so i am naked & wantin
to be explored like a honeysuckle patch
when you look at me how you do so
i am all lips and thigh/
my cover is blown & the kisses
run free/ only to hover sulkin over
yr cheek/ while i pretend
they are not mine
cuz its happenin/ but you dont know abt it
the kisses they take a slow blues walk
back to me
in the palm of my hand
they spread out/ scratch kick curse & punch
till my skin cries/
kisses raisin hell/ in my fists/
they fly out mad & eager
they'll fly out mad & eager
if you look at me how you do so i am naked
& wantin/ if you look at my how you do so
i am all lips & thigh/
they gonna fly out mad & eager
they fly out & climb on you
the kisses/ they
flyin
if you look at me
how you do so
--Ntozake Shange
Meeting At Night
I.
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
II.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears
Then the two hearts beating each to each!
--Robert Browning
Final Notations
it will not be simple, it will not be long
it will take little time, it will take all your thought
it will take all your heart, it will take all your breath
it will be short, it will not be simple
it will touch through your ribs, it will take all your heart
it will not be long, it will occupy your thought
as a city is occupied, as a bed is occupied
it will take all your flesh, it will not be simple
you are coming into us who cannot withstand you
you are coming into us who never wanted to withstand you
you are taking parts of us into places never planned
you are going far away with pieces of our lives
it will be short, it will take all your breath
it will not be simple, it will become your will
--Adrienne Rich
Terrible
a horse at night
standing hitched alone
in the still street
and whinnying
as if some sad nude astride him
had gripped hot legs on him
and sung
a sweet high hungry
single syllable
--Lawrence Ferlinghetti
For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further
Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me.
And if I tried
to give you something else,
something outside of myself,
you would not know
that the worst of anyone
can be, finally,
an accident of hope.
I tapped my own head;
it was a glass, an inverted bowl.
It is a small thing
to rage in your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself;
it was you, or your house
or your kitchen.
And if you turn away
because there is no lesson here
I will hold my awkward bowl,
with all its cracked stars shining
like a complicated lie,
and fasten a new skin around it
as if I were dressing an orange
or a strange sun.
Not that it was beautiful,
but that I found some order there.
There ought to be something special
for someone
in this kind of hope.
This is something I would never find
in a lovelier place, my dear,
although your fear is anyone's fear,
like an invisible veil between us all...
and sometimes in private,
my kitchen, your kitchen,
my face, your face.
--Anne Sexton
There are always so many more, but I suppose that will do for now...
EDIT: I'm annoyed because the Ferlinghetti poem is not supposed to be all left-justified like that, but I can't figure out how to get it to display properly.
Snow-Hole
Falling asleep in the snowscape of the big double bed
I wrap my hand around your hand until they catch fire
And the snow begins to melt and we sink down and down,
The fire and ourselves, how many feet below the morning.
Should the fire burn out at the bottom of the snow-hole,
Smoke will escape up the glass chimney into the bedroom.
--Michael Longley
And because I went looking through all my poetry to find something to post, and it's far too hard to choose just one, here are a few
its happenin/ but you dont know abt it
these kisses are clandestine
no one can see them
i hold them in my hand
shd i be discovered/
i stick them in my hair & my head gets hot
so i haveta excuse myself
under no circumstances
can the legs that slip over my hips
leave tellin marks/ scents
of love/ this wd be unpardonable
so i am all the time
rubbin my arms/ exposin myself
to river mists/ to mask the sweetness
you leave me swillin in
i cant allow you to look at me
how you do so i am naked & wantin
to be explored like a honeysuckle patch
when you look at me how you do so
i am all lips and thigh/
my cover is blown & the kisses
run free/ only to hover sulkin over
yr cheek/ while i pretend
they are not mine
cuz its happenin/ but you dont know abt it
the kisses they take a slow blues walk
back to me
in the palm of my hand
they spread out/ scratch kick curse & punch
till my skin cries/
kisses raisin hell/ in my fists/
they fly out mad & eager
they'll fly out mad & eager
if you look at me how you do so i am naked
& wantin/ if you look at my how you do so
i am all lips & thigh/
they gonna fly out mad & eager
they fly out & climb on you
the kisses/ they
flyin
if you look at me
how you do so
--Ntozake Shange
Meeting At Night
I.
The grey sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.
II.
Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears
Then the two hearts beating each to each!
--Robert Browning
Final Notations
it will not be simple, it will not be long
it will take little time, it will take all your thought
it will take all your heart, it will take all your breath
it will be short, it will not be simple
it will touch through your ribs, it will take all your heart
it will not be long, it will occupy your thought
as a city is occupied, as a bed is occupied
it will take all your flesh, it will not be simple
you are coming into us who cannot withstand you
you are coming into us who never wanted to withstand you
you are taking parts of us into places never planned
you are going far away with pieces of our lives
it will be short, it will take all your breath
it will not be simple, it will become your will
--Adrienne Rich
Terrible
a horse at night
standing hitched alone
in the still street
and whinnying
as if some sad nude astride him
had gripped hot legs on him
and sung
a sweet high hungry
single syllable
--Lawrence Ferlinghetti
For John, Who Begs Me Not To Enquire Further
Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me.
And if I tried
to give you something else,
something outside of myself,
you would not know
that the worst of anyone
can be, finally,
an accident of hope.
I tapped my own head;
it was a glass, an inverted bowl.
It is a small thing
to rage in your own bowl.
At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself;
it was you, or your house
or your kitchen.
And if you turn away
because there is no lesson here
I will hold my awkward bowl,
with all its cracked stars shining
like a complicated lie,
and fasten a new skin around it
as if I were dressing an orange
or a strange sun.
Not that it was beautiful,
but that I found some order there.
There ought to be something special
for someone
in this kind of hope.
This is something I would never find
in a lovelier place, my dear,
although your fear is anyone's fear,
like an invisible veil between us all...
and sometimes in private,
my kitchen, your kitchen,
my face, your face.
--Anne Sexton
There are always so many more, but I suppose that will do for now...
EDIT: I'm annoyed because the Ferlinghetti poem is not supposed to be all left-justified like that, but I can't figure out how to get it to display properly.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-21 02:48 pm (UTC)good poems all, especially the sexton and rich ones. mmmmmmmm.
no subject
Date: 2004-10-21 04:05 pm (UTC)