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Old 02-16-2014, 11:43 PM View Post #481 (Link)
Hum (Offline)
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This little breeze is tired of being known,
without having told anyone her hiding place,
as if her hollow bird bones are so visible that no one can ignore them because she’s not earth
enough.

“You let them make you weak.”

Finding the breath to unfold the nuances of her roots,
the dancing folds of her blossoming secret,
the moths at her uvula--
the audience is perhaps a little entitled.

Everyone can have it all because it's theirs to have,
she's theirs to have.
they say so, the wind wants to be with them all,
raising goose bumps on their napes.
  
						Last edited by Hum; 02-17-2014 at 12:06 AM.
					
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Old 02-23-2014, 08:59 PM View Post #482 (Link)
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The goosebumps on my legs have not retreated for months.
As if I have always shaved two days ago. A dusting of snow
is a taunt straight out of Martha Stewart - something you want
that sublimates as soon as it arrives, or that turns to gray slush
in your mouth. Whoever iced the phrase into being never dusted much
and felt the rolls of grime accumulate under the cloth, greasy on his fingers.
What woman could think dusting of snow without recoil.
What snow could fall without recoil, without scattering.
Winter could not scamper fast enough, but at night the squirrels return
to their holes and winter swoops out of them. Most mornings
the mountains to the west are crowned with snow, a dye-dip
that fades as the slope shades into the city. There hasn't been shade
here and won't be for months; all the pines cinched up
and the paltry maples bare, shaking. You have a greater chance
of being burned in winter as in summer: sun's arrows bounce from below.
Even the geese are antsy, circling the pond as though planning an attack.
The white and black arrows of their heads look like heiroglyphs from here,
an abstract arrangement in a tapestry from a hundred years ago, or in a huge pane
of Tiffany glass. It felt like a hundred years ago when I was last
in the Tiffany room at the Met. Summer or winter? Only his wine-hills,
his women of light come through in that room. I don't know if the park
was draped in leaves or gray slush. Only bunches of grapes.
Then light across the marks on the Temple of Dendur like sun throwing gooseprints
into relief. In central park, geese are rounded up every summer, slaughtered,
packaged for dinner. It keeps them out of airplane turbines.
Everywhere else the geese are fruitful and multiply
(but not in those words). Everywhere else the subways are clean
and river crossings don't involve a tangle with the police.
My mother sends me pictures of the snow at home, so high the dog
stands level with the top of her car. But in a month the lake will swell,
the snow will muzzle down among the skunk cabbage.
The mountain laurel and blueberries will shake out a few new leaves.
The canoe is sure to be tipped and full of brown sludge, then the peepers
that make all evening ventures a chorus. I can almost but not quite
hear it. The wind and drifting snow have scrubbed them from my memory.
All I get is shaker and marimba, what stands in for the frogs on TV
when we're supposed to feel the press of the night marsh
in our clean and far off living rooms. Don't get me wrong. I love the million yellows
that grass wears here, the call of ravens in winter across the parking lot,
the snatch of mountains from the bus stop that's different each morning.
The only details I can still see without my glasses are on those mountains.
I love not running into high school classmates at the deli, not having to be home
at midnight before my dad puts his guitar down and pours himself a drink.
I love seeing the sun in winter, that berries and asparagus from California
make it here when the ground still shivers and freezes.
But winter has frozen me to my chair. I feel congealed, like olive oil
left in a too-cold cabinet. Today I tried to move, really feel my limbs.
It was as if I'd been plunged into deep water: pressure
filling lungs and ears. Stop, they said, we're killing us.
I tried to come up for air but only saw blue at the end of the tunnel,
the egg blue of flat sky over the parched plains, not the pull of leaves
that brought me back to the surface of the lake when diving for weeds.
The cold air has left me gasping for spring, and even the snowmelt
and the cornflowers in the dry grass are not enough to satisfy.
Despite the heat of the sun and the wildfires to come in a few months
nothing will warm me except leaves exploding at every angle from tiny fists,
the warm hug of walking among hundred year old trees,
the light percolating through them filled with life, like a long drink.
  
						Last edited by Isis; 02-23-2014 at 09:13 PM.
					
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Old 02-24-2014, 05:16 AM View Post #483 (Link) disconnected thoughts about time ... again
Raconteur (Offline)
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A candle to hold against time and its passing through.

I am all of it, and not alone in this conceit: the sand, the sky, the darling thrush
recoil against the shadow and its insufferable onset...
as if there is revelation with time and its bristling, in how it hunches forward and moans
like an old dog.

I let go of all of it. There is an awful fatigue in trying to hold on.
Once, I read a poem about nettles that moved me,
that shook a rhythm from me.
But now I can't remember.

Amichai wrote about the light. Perhaps not a candle, but still a passing;
the kind of loss we cyclically forget and then remember.
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Old 02-25-2014, 10:53 PM View Post #484 (Link)
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To begin, pull one apart from the other. Take a doe,
remove her from the obtuse assertions of a forest.
This poem will skin her, unkindly and yet, knowingly,
..........................so that I can become her
as if it is prophecy: something changeless, constant,
a done thing.

Here, she is immobile, without a muscle to stretch.
The neck has become a figuration for slanted light,
..........................I replace her nudity with shame,
sometimes even kill her for later recollection.
Transfigure the doe, strip it of its gender and fury,
and through anaphora, perhaps even spiritualize it:

The doe, the doe, the doe, the doe, the doe.

To end, recognise how wheat captures the sun:
I am the adjunct to my images: I press against them.
The doe wanders elsewhere, quickly, but never far.
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Old 02-25-2014, 11:09 PM View Post #485 (Link)
Julian (Offline)
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her eyes--like mirrors--
stain his desert wounds
with a greenish spot
that icily pricks the shadow
of his sweaty back, as
he breathes moss out under
the sandy complexion of
the sun.
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						Last edited by Julian; 02-25-2014 at 11:27 PM.
					
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Old 02-26-2014, 07:21 PM View Post #486 (Link)
Julian (Offline)
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In my country, we eat celery stalks at 3 a.m,
everyone awakes from their slumber, beady-eyed like
me I imagine they are, craving for the green thing
whether boiled or raw, their small leaves like open
palms, and I imagine how, at the West side
of the country, flying over the endless stream of black
and highway, and the strip of green that slithered
and stopped at the frontier, the customs are changing
in the sleepy minds of University students, where the lecture halls
are littered with books, not soil from a day of digging, and intelligence
works its meaty magic on the insomniacs’ body, the body of students
unswayed by the healthiness of the celery, by the vegetables of
the world. At least, intelligence swayed me when I lived there.
Intelligence transformed celery fibres into cockroach whiskers
and made celery crunches sound like spitting, water sticky
like mucus.

Yet is it surprising to anyone
that we celebrate the end of University by regaining our old
customs back? The sensation of a sleep-gone revival at 3 a.m, a
long-awaited adult reincarnation—to quench again our thirsts by
biting on the stalk passionately like a lust---would only make any young
adult shout at 3 a.m. Here in the East, the colder air makes us dull and old.
Only celery plants are growing, as the flowers are too small to oscillate or
to see. And somehow I still want to explore my youth again, to be transported
across the Western side, where intelligence replaces the comfort
of the absolute.
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						Last edited by Julian; 02-26-2014 at 07:29 PM.
					
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Old 02-27-2014, 06:49 AM View Post #487 (Link) imprecisions
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Here, the wind finds me at no particular angle
but takes my body, gives back my body...
that is how I know I am not wild, nor a wilderness to get lost in.
Somewhere, a man is on a train (he is not a philosopher)
ruminating on how the trees push back, inaccurately,
as if guided by some ancient rule.
But it is only wind: a wind that unhinges one image,
leaving the world a little cockeyed.
That must be what the wolves howl at--the moon, askance,
perhaps only a mood swing from falling away.
Or, it is at the small sweetness of missing something.
Listen: someone has broken into a run without precision,
guided only by the giving wind. A world must rush alongside her--
something from another plane, something unmanageable
and coded like the unyielding trees.
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Old 02-27-2014, 04:06 PM View Post #488 (Link)
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she reads my skin like heiroglyphs, i drink her sins in darjeeling chai
burn my tongue on her first sip,
underage emotions are posionous
note: eyes are almonds in carefully swept floors
and her eyebrows are curtains that shut
down on a september evening but leave
that little creak by the edge of the window
which the 9 year old peeks from
to see whether mama got home yet.
its a dark night in her cup of lies,
walking up to her arms, walking into her arms
walking across her is a ride to moksha
vipasanna rhythmic breathing so help me god
eye winks and slavery go hand in hand.
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Old 02-27-2014, 07:11 PM View Post #489 (Link)
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My shoe is falling apart.
I don't remember when it happened
when the threads got lost or when the sole cracked
when the seam split apart revealing spider-web stuffing.
I never knew shoes had stuffing
I do remember when the aglet cracked, because I picked at it
digging my nail into the protective plastic until it finally fell off
the glue sort of gave up, and then the shoelaces began to fray
Once my shoe was a bright blue, and now it's--
well, sort of dull grey.
But I guess that happens with old age.
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Old 03-03-2014, 08:02 AM View Post #490 (Link)
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I attempt to rinse myself of this city—the one
shaped like a seagull,
the one she and I punctuated: one long ellipsis…

I call for a kindness to find me,
here, down Pembina road, where dogs have trotted
anchored by their leashes,
pulled back by a sense of how things should be.

And as if in place, she is here,
unkind, not even gentle, but ghostly overbearing
like a fat moon’s sliver.
Even at the soda shop, she is in the raspberry-peppered
ice cream,
the rootbear float,
she is in all those mundane things,
undiscarded, kept heavily like breath.

This must be the violence I live by;
I am never soothed,
only some jagged spirit, built like basil leaves—
and yet
“tender,” she'd said,
tender, she felt, thought, is.
I can still hear her,
the million sharp s’s at her neck; the sound of her
loosening her hair,
and the tremor of water down the sink.
  
						Last edited by Raconteur; 03-03-2014 at 08:42 AM.
					
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