Untitled (3/15/10)

(I very need to work on titles... Well, its 2am and I'm late and nothing else is suitable to post. This is angry, but all feelings are valid and in 'feminist memoir' today we talked about women needing to make space for their anger. Consider this that. I'm gonna pretend that this is brave...)

It should be me seducing you
when nights start getting late.

Batting my eyelashes, giggling some,
making you sit and wait.

They say it's us who drive men mad,
but I know this is wrong.

You make me crazy when you smile,
when I watch you sing a song.

Seduction is a silly thing
and though it ought be me,

I find I have no patience now
to guide you towards what you can't see.

And since it makes me nauseous
to watch you turn away

I think I'll leave and won't return.
And even if you never say

I'll imagine you'll be disappointed
in my disappearing act.

Instead of picturing you with her
I'll pretend you want me back.

It won't matter either way though,
what you say or do.

It's clear to me you're dangerous
so my armor's fully on, I'm through.

Through with flirting, through with coy,
through with highs and lows.

Through with guessing games and bullshit.
Through with giving in to throws

of passion. Through with giving you
my heart you never worked to get.

Through with letting you break it.
Fuck your smile. I'm over it.

Drunk as Drunk (Pablo Neruda)

(This man is brilliant. From another of his beautiful works: "Love is so short. Forgetting is so long." Yea, thats genius. I like the metaphor of being drunk w/ love, probably because I like gettting drunk and I like falling in love. Gorgeous imagery, he's a master of romantic mental images...)

Drunk as drunk on turpentine
From your open kisses,
Your wet body wedged
Between my wet body and the strake
Of our boat that is made of flowers,
Feasted, we guide it - our fingers
Like tallows adorned with yellow metal -
Over the sky's hot rim,
The day's last breath in our sails.

Pinned by the sun between solstice
And equinox, drowsy and tangled together
We drifted for months and woke
With the bitter taste of land on our lips,
Eyelids all sticky, and we longed for lime
And the sound of a rope
Lowering a bucket down its well. Then,
We came by night to the Fortunate Isles,
And lay like fish
Under the net of our kisses.

Canto 1: The Inferno (Dante)

(This isn't my favorite, but I lent my hardcopy out so this is what I could find online. Read the whole things. It's so imaginative, and an unbelievable feat. The man created a compendium of the entire human experience, allegorically, in verse. UNREAL. It's a great journey, complete with a hero, and sidekick, and a girl. Maybe a photo also.. my favorite is the circle for the lustful, the giants, and of course, the betrayers on ice...)




Midway upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.
Ah me! how hard a thing iit is to say
What was this forest, savage, rough, and stern,
Which in the very thought renews the fear.
So bitter is it, death is little more;
But of the good to treat, which there I found,
Speak will I of the other things I saw there.
I cannot well repeat how there I entered,
So full was I of slumber at the moment
In which I had abandoned the true way.
But after I had reached a mountain's foot,
At that point where the valley terminated,
Which has with consternation pierced my heart,
Upward I looked, and I beheld its shoulders,
Vested already with that planet's rays
Which leadeth others right by every road.
Then was the fear a little quieted
That in my heart's lake had endured throughout
The night, which I had passed so piteously.
And even as he, who, with distressful breath,
Forth issued from the sea upon the shore,
Turns to the water perilous and gazes;
So did my soul, that still was fleeing onward,
Turn itself back to re-behold the pass
Which never yet a living person left.

Untitled (3/26/10)

(This is dedicated to Claire. Inspired by complicated situations, memoirs about water and tragedy, and sleepovers. Once again, things I'm scared to say out loud to the the person that needs to hear them the most... Oh, and I'll post Dante tomorrow)

Something tenuous lives here,
in a deep and watery ventricle
of the heart. It's a thread
connecting me and you.
It must be thin and sturdy rope,
woven to resist the pull of tides,
rough against my fingerpads.
I strum it like a guitar string,
hoping you'll already know the melody.
I know it's already crowded down here
with our oceanic baggage.
I'm not afraid of conch shells
and coral and old photographs and broken jewelry.
No, I'm not afraid of any of that
lost and forgotten treasure
at the bottom of the sea. It was cherished once.
It should be easier to build something
from something that already has
a strong frame. A foundation.
But I'm standing with a brick in one hand,
and mortar in the other,
and I realize I've never built anything
and that bricks are out of place
20,000 leagues under the sea.
So I'll hold my breath and watch
the air bubbles float up,
and when I feel a vibration
wave back over our rope,
I'll kick strongly off the ocean floor,
and meet you at the surface.

Circle 9: Caina (Spring 2007)

(So this is from the worst moments in my life. It's interesting to think about why people hurt the ones they love. Its a safe move, but still drama and exciting... Anyway, Circle 9 is a Dante reference, the lowest circle of hell, reserved for betrayers. Caina is where betrayers of kin end up. I wish I believed in hell, and how logical the eternal punishments are. The Inferno might be the best poem ever. Maybe I'll post some of that. Ok, here's to learning from people who fuck you over...)

Do you think she meant to hurt me?
I must say, I think she did.
Betrayals are never truly accidental.
Somehow most duplicities become exhilarations
Bleak flutters from destroying trust that’s ripened over time.
Tangible pull towards that sound… it’s a crack!
The heart of a fool who’ll do anything for you,
Speechless when grasping the damage you’ve sowed.

Truly, I’d never have left her to cry.

So, mostly for the thrill of it
she stole from me a treasure, which
I’d only just begun to understand.
She sought him out, and with a spiteful heart,
decided she would love him.
(And then she was gone with no explanation,
which everyone knows is the same as a lie.)

Later she told me it all was inevitable.
But I must confess I’d resisted the knowing
that shameful abandonment of nurturing ardor
ends up the predestined, unavoidable end.

My Mouth Hovers Across Your Breast (Adrienne Rich)

(I just got back from Bikram and my body feels delish. So here's a sexy one. Consider who is speaking. Does it matter that the narrator's gender is ambiguous? Do you feel like you can tell? And how about if you consider her description of love. Can it be non-sexual? Should it be? Let it linger...)

My mouth hovers across your breasts
in the short grey winter afternoon
in this bed we are delicate
and touch so hot with joy we amaze ourselves
tough and delicate we play rings
around each other our daytime candle burns
with its peculiar light and if the snow
begins to fall outside filling the branches
and if the night falls without announcement
there are the pleasures of winter
sudden, wild and delicate your fingers
exact my tongue exact at the same moment
stopping to laugh at a joke
my love hot on your scent on the cusp of winter

Implosions- Adrienne Rick

(This is brilliant. She is great, I'll be posting more of her. Probably tomorrow. And I think I'm gonna give you some of what I've been slaving over all spring break. But just check out the alliteration and movement here. It's dynamic.)

The world's
not wanton
only wild and wavering

I wanted to choose words that even you
would have to be changed by

Take the word
of my pulse, loving and ordinary
Send out your signals, hoist
your dark scribbled flags
but take
my hand

All wars are useless to the dead

My hands are knotted in the rope
and I cannot sound the bell

My hands are frozen to the switch
and I cannot throw it

The foot is in the wheel

When it's finished and we're lying
in a stubble of blistered flowers
eyes gaping, mouths staring
dusted with crushed arterial blues

I'll have done nothing
even for you?