thank you for all the wonderful poems. they have kind of kept me going. please post poems any time you wish. it makes me happy.
right now it's raining old loves. i opened the window so i could listen better. it's a grey day, a little bit cold. i'm writing this in my underwear, all wondering and wounded.
last night i won second place in a costume contest. i was eris, the goddess of discord and strife.
my hair is bright pink. my eyes, still golden green. my heart, wine red & treacherous.
all my edges have been worn away, burned white as bone.
i need something like you, something like the shape of you.
what i really need is my coffee and my pills. although lately even this is not enough.
i want to put everything i own into a pink pillowcase and run away. i want to be a hobo princess, i want to be an indian cowboy's sweetheart.
"with one i recognize you. with two i see you. with three i tie you. your blood i drink, & your heart i break."
say it.
say it like disaster.
right now it's raining old loves. i opened the window so i could listen better. it's a grey day, a little bit cold. i'm writing this in my underwear, all wondering and wounded.
last night i won second place in a costume contest. i was eris, the goddess of discord and strife.
my hair is bright pink. my eyes, still golden green. my heart, wine red & treacherous.
all my edges have been worn away, burned white as bone.
i need something like you, something like the shape of you.
what i really need is my coffee and my pills. although lately even this is not enough.
i want to put everything i own into a pink pillowcase and run away. i want to be a hobo princess, i want to be an indian cowboy's sweetheart.
"with one i recognize you. with two i see you. with three i tie you. your blood i drink, & your heart i break."
say it.
say it like disaster.
VIEW 25 of 38 COMMENTS
Pleasures
Denise Levertov
I like to find
what's not found
at once, but lies
within something of another nature,
in repose, distinct.
Gull feathers of glass, hidden
in white pulp: the bones of squid
which I pull out and lay
blade by blade on the draining board -
tapered as if for swiftness, to pierce
the heart, but fragile, substance
belying design. Or a fruit, mamey,
cased in rough brown peel, the flesh
rose-amber, and the seed:
the seed a stone of wood, carved and
polished, walnut-colored, formed
like a brazilnut, but large,
large enough to fill
the hungry palm of a hand.
I like the juicy stem of grass that grows
within the coarser leaf folded round,
and the butteryellow glow
in the narrow flute from which the morning- glory
opens blue and cool on a hot morning
---------------------------
and the masculineverse of Randall Jarrell
The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner
Randall Jarrell
From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.
[Edited on Nov 15, 2005 5:09PM]