National Poets Day - Share a poem!

[pixy0stix]

Today is National Poets Day! I always like the threads where we share poems.

This time, share a poem you haven't shared before. I'll even accept song lyrics.

[pixy0stix]

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

- Wordsworth

[zelda25]

By my favorite poet, Jack Gilbert:


The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart


How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,

and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,

God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words

Get it wrong. We say bread and it means according

to which nation. French has no word for home,

and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people

in northern India is dying out because their ancient

tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost

vocabularies that might express some of what

we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would

finally explain why the couples on their tombs

are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands

of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,

they seemed to be business records. But what if they

are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve

Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.

O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,

as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor.

Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts

of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred

pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what

my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this

desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script

is not a language but a map. What we feel most has

no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.

[Deleted]

saw you take his kiss!' ''Tis true.'
'O, modesty!' ' 'Twas strictly kept:
He thought me asleep; at least I knew
He thought I thought he thought I slept.'

Coventry Patmore

[AJL]

Neruda is one of my favorite poets of all time.

Sonnet 17

I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries
the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose
from the earth lives dimly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

[NewOrleans]

Aug 21, 2015 10:45:22 GMT -5 nursecramer said:

Oh, and this one. Which, BONUS! is also the lyrics to a song on Iris DeMent's new album The Trackless Woods, which is all Akhmatova's poetry put to song. She used a different translation, though. I prefer this one.


Last Toast

I’m drinking to a ruined home,
And to my life in hell,
To us together, yet alone,
And to you too, as well, -

To lies of lips, betraying love,
That ice-cold deathly stare,
The world, so merciless and rough,
And God, who wasn’t there.

By Anna Akhmatova
Translation by Andrey Kneller

She is one of my very favorite poets ever.

[btdt]

Take me down to Hai-
ku City where the grass is
green, and the dammit.

[NewOrleans]

I love this one by ee Cummings, whose poems have no titles.

You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.

Come with me, then,
And we'll leave it far and far away—
(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,
(I think)
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and—
Just tired.
So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!
I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I'll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.

[Fins]

Thanks nursecramer. I'll have to look for The Trackless Woods. I love Anna Akhmatova. Her poem "The Sentence" helped me at a difficult time in my life:

And the stone word fell
On my still-living breast.
Never mind, I was ready.
I will manage somehow.

Today I have so much to do:
I must kill memory once and for all,
I must turn my soul to stone,
I must learn to live again—

Unless . . . Summer's ardent rustling
Is like a festival outside my window.
For a long time I've foreseen this
Brilliant day, deserted house.

(Translation by Judith Hemschemeyer)

[NewOrleans]

Dusting these off case anyone wants old poetry posts. ESF liked them

pandce.proboards.com/thread/286658/bored-first-posters-get-poem

pandce.proboards.com/thread/393989/first-10-people-get-poem

pandce.proboards.com/thread/306185/favorite-poets-poem

[YeahSure]

I've loved this one since I was little.

The Naming Of Cats

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey--
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter--
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover--
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

by T. S. Eliot

[NewOrleans]

Aug 21, 2015 10:57:14 GMT -5 Fins said:

Thanks nursecramer. I'll have to look for The Trackless Woods. I love Anna Akhmatova. Her poem "The Sentence" helped me at a difficult time in my life:

And the stone word fell
On my still-living breast.
Never mind, I was ready.
I will manage somehow.

Today I have so much to do:
I must kill memory once and for all,
I must turn my soul to stone,
I must learn to live again—

Unless . . . Summer's ardent rustling
Is like a festival outside my window.
For a long time I've foreseen this
Brilliant day, deserted house.

(Translation by Judith Hemschemeyer)

It is part of a larger poem, a series of them, collectively called "Requiem" about the experience of her son and husband arrested by Stalin and of staying I. Russia instead of fleeing.  In the Akhmatova Museum in Petersburg, you can see the little scraps she wrote it on.

[pixy0stix]

Aug 21, 2015 10:58:20 GMT -5 YeahSure said:

I've loved this one since I was little.

The Naming Of Cats

He forgot the 4th name, the one you yell when the little bastard bites your ankle because you didn't feed him fast enough.

[pixy0stix]

Touched by an Angel


We, unaccustomed to courage
exiles from delight
live coiled in shells of loneliness
until love leaves its high holy temple
and comes into our sight
to liberate us into life.

Love arrives
and in its train come ecstasies
old memories of pleasure
ancient histories of pain.
Yet if we are bold,
love strikes away the chains of fear
from our souls.

We are weaned from our timidity
In the flush of love's light
we dare be brave
And suddenly we see
that love costs all we are
and will ever be.
Yet it is only love
which sets us free.

- Maya Angelou

[2curlydogs]

Autumn comes too early.

The prairie still in bloom,

Wildly careening, a flight of bees, desperately grasps at life

As the biting winds of autumn suddenly dispatch the last buds of summer.



What is its birth?

Why should it destroy these dreams, arbors, memories?

Its scent enters the hushed woods,

ceasing sap's flow and slowly eroding the promise of tomorrow.



Breathless autumn, squanders itself upon my window,

rips away leaves, clouding mornings gray and dreary,

Covering the paths so fondly walked and driving us all inside.

[omgzombies]

Aug 21, 2015 10:49:31 GMT -5 AJL said:

Neruda is one of my favorite poets of all time.

Sonnet 17

I don’t love you as if you were a rose of salt, topaz,
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as one loves certain obscure things,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that doesn’t bloom but carries
the light of those flowers, hidden, within itself,
and thanks to your love the tight aroma that arose
from the earth lives dimly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you directly without problems or pride:
I love you like this because I don’t know any other way to love,
except in this form in which I am not nor are you,
so close that your hand upon my chest is mine,
so close that your eyes close with my dreams.

This is one of my favorite poems of all time.

[omgzombies]

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.

[omgzombies]

Oh and another of my faves. I'm pretty sure this poem is responsible for my developing a love of poetry in the first place.

Sick
Shel Silverstein

Sick "I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more - that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut, my eyes are blue -
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke -
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb,
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my spine is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is -
what? What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is ... Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"

[pixy0stix]

"Landslide"

I took my love and took it down
I climbed a mountain and I turned around
And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills
Till the landslide brought me down

Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changing ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?

Well, I've been afraid of changing
'Cause I've built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I'm getting older too

I take my love, take it down
I climb a mountain and turn around
And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills
Will the landslide bring you down
And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills
Will the landslide bring you down, oh, oh
The landslide bring you down

- Fleetwood Mac

[pixy0stix]

"Bullet With Butterfly Wings"

The world is a vampire, sent to drain
Secret destroyers, hold you up to the flames
And what do I get, for my pain?
Betrayed desires, and a piece of the game

Even though I know - I suppose I'll show
All my cool and cold - like old job

Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage
Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage
Then someone will say what is lost can never be saved
Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage

Now I'm naked, nothing but an animal
But can you fake it, for just one more show?
And what do you want?
I want to change
And what have you got, when you feel the same?

Even though I know - I suppose I'll show
All my cool and cold - like old job

Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage
Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage
Then someone will say what is lost can never be saved
Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage

Tell me I'm the only one
Tell me there's no other one
Jesus was the only son, yeah.
Tell me I'm the chosen one
Jesus was the only son for you

Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage
Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage
And someone will say what is lost can never be saved
Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage

Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a-
Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a-
Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage

Tell me I'm the only one
Tell me there's no other one
Jesus was the only son for you

And I still believe that I cannot be saved

- Smashing Pumpkins

[downtoearth]

Just Wrinkles

Her face remembers thing she cant. The skin
around her mouth and on her cheeks hangs down
weighed down with smiles and laughs forever stored
inside a pouch so full it had to stretch
and curve. She never paced herself when she
was young. She let her face and skin express
her joy and sadness flowing, flowing fast
through sharp new rocks becoming worn with life
so smoothed and grooved into comfort, routine
that now routine is all she has and grooves.


Author--Jennifer Greene

[Deleted]

A Valediction Forbidding Mourning

As virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say
The breath goes now, and some say, No:

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears,
Men reckon what it did, and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refined,
That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips, and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the other do.

And though it in the center sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.

John Donne

[meshaliuknits]

For some reason Smashing Pumpkins makes me wanna listen to NIN. So I give you Closer.

Closer

You let me violate you, you let me desecrate you
You let me penetrate you, you let me complicate you
Help me I broke apart my insides, help me I’ve got no soul to sell
Help me the only thing that works for me, help me get away from myself
I want to fuck you like an animal
I want to feel you from the inside
I want to fuck you like an animal
My whole existence is flawed
You get me closer to god
You can have my isolation, you can have the hate that it brings
You can have my absence of faith, you can have my everything
Help me tear down my reason, help me its' your sex I can smell
Help me you make me perfect, help me become somebody else
I want to fuck you like an animal
I want to feel you from the inside
I want to fuck you like an animal
My whole existence is flawed
You get me closer to god

Through every forest, above the trees
Within my stomach, scraped off my knees
I drink the honey inside your hive
You are the reason I stay alive


Nine Inch Nails

[meshaliuknits]

And NIN makes me want to listen to Pantera.

Fucking Hostile

Almost every day
I see the same face
On broken picture tube
It fits the attitude
If you could see yourself
You put you on a shelf
Your verbal masturbate
Promise to nauseate
Today I'll play the part of non-parent
Not make a hundred rules
For you to know about yourself
Not lie and make you believe
What's evil is making love
and making friends
and meeting God you're own way
The right way

To see
To bleed
Cannot be taught
In turn
You're making us
Fucking hostile

We stand alone

The truth in right and wrong
The boundaries of the law
You seem to miss the point
Arresting for a joint?
You seem to wonder why
Hundreds of people die
You're writing tickets man
My mom got jumped -- they ran!
Now I'll play a public servant
To serve and protect
By the law and the state
I'd bust the punks
That rape steal and murder
And leave you be
If you crossed me
I'd shake your hand like a man
Not a god


Come meet your maker, boy
Some things you can't enjoy
Because of heaven/hell
A fucking wives' tale
They put it in your head
Then put you in your bed
He's watching say your prayers
Cause God is everywhere
Now I'll play a man learning priesthood
Who's about to take the ultimate test in life
I'd question things because I am human
And call NO ONE my father who's no closer that a stranger

I won't listen

[downtoearth]

Aug 21, 2015 10:43:14 GMT -5 pixy0stix said:

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

- Wordsworth

I recently heard this from The Writer's Almanac about that poem and loved it even more after hearing the backstory for some reason:

It was on this day in 1802 that William Wordsworth (books by this author) was walking home with his sister, Dorothy, and saw a patch of daffodils that became the inspiration for one of his most famous poems.

They were returning from a visit to their friends Thomas and Catherine Clarkson, who lived on the shore of Ullswater, the second largest lake in England's lake district, a beautiful deep lake, nine miles long, surrounded by mountains. The Clarksons were good friends. Thomas was a fierce abolitionist who had made it his life's work to end slavery. Samuel Taylor Coleridge, also a neighbor in the Lake District, wrote: "I once asked Tom Clarkson whether he ever thought of his probable fate in the next world, to which he replied, 'How can I? I think only of the slaves in Barbados!'" Apparently Tom wasn't a fan of poetry, either. But Dorothy Wordsworth and Catherine exchanged letters. Later that year, Wordsworth got married, and he and his wife, Mary, named one of their daughters after Catherine. They all enjoyed the Clarksons' witty and intelligent conversation.

Dorothy and William had left Dove Cottage at the end of March for a round of visiting friends, including Coleridge. William left Dorothy with the Clarksons for eight days while he went to Yorkshire to visit Mary, the woman he would marry six months later. On Monday, April 12th, Wordsworth left Mary to head back to his friends' house. He got caught in a snowstorm and his horse needed new shoes, but he plodded on to stay at an inn for the night, and during the ride he wrote a poem, "The Glow-worm," which begins:
Among all lovely things my Love had been;
Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew
About her home; but she had never seen
A glow-worm, never one, and this I knew.

He made it back to the Clarksons' the next evening, spent a day with friends, and after dinner on the 15th he and Dorothy set out to walk home. It was many miles back to Dove Cottage, but they were used to long walks, and took it slowly, stopping often either to seek shelter from the weather or to admire things they passed.

Dorothy wrote in her journal: "It was a threatening misty morning — but mild. [...] The hawthorns are black and green, the birches here and there greenish but there is yet more of purple to be seen on the Twigs. We got over into a field to avoid some cows — people working, a few primroses by the roadside, woodsorrel flower, the anemone, scentless violets, strawberries, and that starry yellow flower which Mrs C. calls pile wort. When we were in the woods beyond Gowbarrow park we saw a few daffodils close to the water side. We fancied that the lake had floated the seeds ashore and that the little colony had so sprung up. But as we went along there were more and yet more and at last under the boughs of the trees, we saw that there was a long belt of them along the shore, about the breadth of a country turnpike road. I never saw daffodils so beautiful. They grew among the mossy stones about and about them, some rested their heads upon these stones as on a pillow for weariness and the rest tossed and reeled and danced and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon them over the lake, they looked so gay ever glancing ever changing. This wind blew directly over the lake to them. There was here and there a little knot and a few stragglers a few yards higher up but they were so few as not to disturb the simplicity and unity and life of that one busy highway. We rested again and again."

For his part, William didn't write anything about the daffodils for at least two years, maybe more. No one is sure when he wrote the poem "I wander'd lonely as a cloud," but it was published in 1807. It didn't get a very good reception. One critic wrote, "He thinks it worth while to give a tame, matter-of-fact account of some daffodils blown about with the wind, because he thought of them afterwards." Another poet said, "Surely, if his worst foe had chosen to caricature this egotistic manufacturer of metaphysical importance upon trivial themes, he could not have done it more effectively." But these days it is one of Wordsworth's most famous poems, and when the BBC conducted a nationwide poll in 1995 for the country's favorite poems, it was ranked number five.

Wordsworth's 1807 version of the poem was only three stanzas long, 18 lines. When he revised it in 1815, he tinkered with some lines — changed "Ten thousand dancing in the breeze" to "Fluttering and dancing in the breeze" — and he added another stanza, the stanza that is now second and begins, "Continuous as the stars that shine / And twinkle on the milky way ..."

Not only did Wordsworth probably reference Dorothy's journal for inspiration, but his wife, Mary, came up with two lines: "They flash upon that inward eye / Which is the bliss of solitude." William said they were the best lines in the poem.

[pixy0stix]

Aug 21, 2015 11:24:32 GMT -5 meshaliuknits said:

And NIN makes me want to listen to Pantera.

I think when I get home tonight I'm just going to rock out.

[charminglife]

Boots Of Spanish Leather
Bob Dylan


Oh I'm sailin' away my own true love
I'm sailin' away in the morning
Is there something I can send you from across the sea
From the place that I'll be landing ?

No, there's nothin' you can send me, my own true love
There's nothin' I wish to be ownin'
Just carry yourself back to me unspoiled
From across that lonesome ocean.

Oh, but I just thought you might want something fine
Made of silver or of golden
Either from the mountains of Madrid
Or from the coast of Barcelona ?

Oh, but if I had the stars from the darkest night
And the diamonds from the deepest ocean
I'd forsake them all for your sweet kiss
For that's all I'm wishin' to be ownin'.

That I might be gone a long time
And it's only that I'm askin'
Is there something I can send you to remember me by
To make your time more easy passin' ?

Oh, how can, how can you ask me again
It only brings me sorrow
The same thing I want from you today
I would want again tomorrow.

I got a letter on a lonesome day
It was from her ship a-sailin'
Saying I don't know when I'll be comin' back again
It depends on how I'm a-feelin'.

Well, if you, my love, must think that-a-way
I'm sure your mind is roarmin'
I'm sure your thoughts are not with me
But with the country to where you're goin'.

So take heed, take heed of the western wind
Take heed of the stormy weather
And yes, there's something you can send back to me
Spanish boots of Spanish leather.

[msmerymac]

Something I've enjoyed recently.

won’t you celebrate with me

Lucille Clifton, 1936 - 2010

won’t you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my other hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.

[darnkatz]

sometimes, no words are needed - Jacqueline Woodson

“Deep winter and the night air is cold. So still,
it feels like the world goes on forever in the darkness
until you look up and the earth stops
in a ceiling of stars. My head against
my grandfather's arm,
a blanket around us as we sit on the front porch swing.
Its whine like a song.

You don't need words
on a night like this. Just the warmth
of your grandfather's arm. Just the silent promise
that the world as we know it
will always be here.”

[vaportrail]

My favorite forever and ever.

Ophelia’s Confession
by Tracey Herd

Every day God pats my head and calls me
angel, his little broken woman
and gives me flowers as if I hadn’t had enough of these
and I choke back my rage and he mistakes this
for distress as I stand there shaking
in my little sackcloth dress.

Had I ever had the choice
I’d have worn a very different dress,
slit from breast to navel and far too tight
and I’d have smoked and sworn and been
out of my head on drugs, not grief, and the flowers
would have been a tattoo around my ankle,
not an anchor to drag me down, and as for
being a virgin, I’d have slept with both men and women.