February 2012
46 posts
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If these words were timber, I would be fine. I would have fuel to light a fire and read for longer, search for longer in the deep, dark night. No, that isn’t just a croak in the distance. In the woods, I have run and tripped over branches.
If the moon broke through, I could finish this line, I would have light to find the fuel and feed this hunger, and the rustle of anything but leaves...
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It is afternoon and your eyelids are half-closed in the falling snow.
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I have a toe-hold on a heart, but, really, who’s counting? It’s a cliff I’m staring off with a wind picking up. Sometimes sometimes isn’t enough. I have a comma leading my heart, but, really, when has that counted? It’s a sentence I’m staring into and the noun is becoming a verb. She is gone and here all along.
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“Hey.” He heard some rustling on the other end of the phone. He heard her groan then a click, as if she had just turned on a light. She took a deep breath in. “Um, hi.” “I’m a little fucked up.” “Yeah, I hope so. What time is it?” “Where are you?” He took a drag on his cigarette while trying to find a more comfortable sitting...
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I have heard of snow, and how it falls more lightly than this white bed-spread.
There is a light snow covering my bed, my heart, and your torn letter.
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Wedded in November
The moon must know of the faults, the blame that it holds. Each shore crashed and every wife left in the dark of the stars. They ran in December, but the moon knew of the holes in their rushed tragedies, those awful fates that befell the wives of December.
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You jealously give me to everyone else. Let me free, let me go, you begged. You pleaded. You jumped on every plane that was leaving this place and ran to be free, just to go. You begged, you pleaded for me. I’d keep you jealously to myself had I the choice, but I let you free, let you go. I beg, please, let me see what it’s like to go.
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“Well, you know, all those English names sound the same to me.
You would avoid...”
– My Russian History professor on my generic name
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On the tips of my toes
(With the snow
Up to my ankles)
I stood out of reach
For your tender kiss
(Although your lips
Are what I desire)
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He’s not thinking of the new grave and she is wondering, running her hands through her hair, and only concerned that it hasn’t been washed in a while. There is a teaspoon on a napkin in some diner somewhere on the edge of a prairie town. In the new division, he is practising subtraction and counting the new empty room. She is practising shooting vodka and biting into golden apples...
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While we were waltzing.
Two snowflakes fell where I was standing. I was waiting in the cold and wishing I was warm. There is ice covering this northern town. I slipped into a love on an icy patch of road somewhere between my house and yours. I was frozen to a cold love while wishing we were warm. Some snow rolled in while I was leaving. I walked in the storm to find the best snowflakes already waiting where I was...
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“I wish this bus would come. I’m getting cold.” “It never comes on time. Fucking buses.” They shifted on their feet with their hands stuffed into their pockets and their shoulders shrugged to keep the napes of their necks covered from the biting breeze. “I hate this class. Why am I still in school?” “Because you’re gonna graduate, get a good...
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Night Out Poem
I took a usual cover in my room at the ripe time of three in the morning. She gave me a usual once-over and knew that it wasn’t quite time. I have so much work to do before any drinks or hours will do me favours. She lost all inhibition once the clock called it a day.
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“This morning, with her, having coffee.”
– A six-word description of paradise by Johnny Cash
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The snow and birds will sing in the morning.
I keep hearing the waves, the tidal snow riding the winds, crashing on the shores of window panes. I keep hearing, through all the listening, a voice in the silence singing over the bird calls of early morning. I am no bird and I feel the morning sun, warm despite the grains of snow that gently freeze my bare feet. I’m only walking to the curb from my door, but the sound is deafening. The...
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So, I’ll always be yours, despite, well… I’ll always know where my love goes. And so, I’ll know, or so. I found you or it was meant to feel so. I’ll always know. So, it’s forever, it’s for, well…
Inspired by the last phrase in this post.
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Come home, to town, to bed, come, please. She flew, the little butterfly, with colour in her wings. Touch down, come home, come back, he pleads. She turns and twirls and twists with ease. Over beaches, through forests, he follows, admires the butterfly. Come land, find home, come near. She dances, she swims, she flies away again. He kisses words again. She says she is back again. Come over, come...
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She is some sort of muse to me. She caught onto my mind and every word is no longer mine but some strange derivation of this one girl’s beautiful legs.
I’ve quit shaving. I’m letting my hair grow long. My laundry is piled in the corner of my room and I can’t remember the last time I wore a clean shirt. There is a graveyard of beer bottles on the edge of my desk where I sit...
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“So, you’re back together?” “Yeah. Surprising, right?” “Well,” she hesitated. “You don’t seem very sure about this.” “It’s love,” he said with his bottle of beer already between his lips. “How can anyone be certain about love?” She put down her pen. The words that she had scribbled into her notebook stared...
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“I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you - especially when you are...”
– from Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë
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Don’t you know, dear, every word. I’d tell you, but you’d know. I’ve pointed out stars. I don’t know a single name. Don’t you see all the shine. It lights up skies.
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“Oh my god,” she exclaimed, standing in his bedroom doorway and still bundled in a large parka. “What are you wearing?” “What?” He took his feet down from off of his desk and tossed the book he was reading onto the bed against the opposite wall. She motioned towards him with one hand while her other unzipped her winter coat. Sitting up in his chair, he studied...
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Tired
I would wait through days, through summers, until years have been waiting in a room that I’ve cleaned twenty thousand times all for the sake of saying that I waited, because I have waited. Though the sun shines through the blinds, I can’t see it when I close my eyes to make the time pass. There is so much time and I have waited through it all; through the album’s play (Kate Nash...
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Anonymous asked: Have you ever done something that you believe made you a better poet/writer and yet worse person?
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From under floorboards and against the window pane, the snow beats again.
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Eyes pulling, apart, aside, to see, to fall asleep. My eyes, they see the pulling, the shirts over heads, the curtains covering, covered, closed, for open eyes. They see, the eyes, pulling aside to legs uncovered, to curtains over heads. Eyes pulled to two bodies between covers calling softly for the curtains to be drawn. Draw.
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I’d like you to leave your head on my pillow read “The Wind In The Willows” like you know it by heart I’d like you to go and steal my last breath like a real Lady Macbeth who can pull all my strings I’d like all these things to be put together come in out of this weather and pull me back into one
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“when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by...”
– from anyone lived in a pretty how town by e.e. cummings
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He opened his eyes and registered the light. The sun was shining through the cracks in the blinds. It was cold in the room but he let his arm hang off the edge of the bed after he had reached out from under the covers to stop the Adele song that was playing on his clock-radio alarm. He felt warm under the covers and feared the temperature of his room. He wiggled his toes under the layers of sheets...
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I want her to remain gorgeous from a distance, With her voice nothing more Than that alluring rasp in the close classroom breeze, With her footsteps nothing more Than the sigh of another person’s approach, And her smile holding everything In its pairing with the shine in her passing eyes.
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They’re walking all around me, those women with those legs, and I’m lacking the words to say; “Every sign that is wondering which way it should be pointing is pointing southward by default.” That’s where the legs are heading with each stride, slowly walking. Tonight, as my eyes shut with sand beneath my head, I will be watching the legs of the woman behind my eyes....
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“Come on. Just come out for one drink with us.” “I can’t. I need to do this.” “That can wait.” “How do you know?” “I know because nothing is more important that coming out for some drinking with your friends,” she smiled, pleased with her answer. “You’re a terrible influence on me.” “Come out!”...
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“star blazing
but She
read the stories
beyond lines….”
– from “Formed in the Stance” by William S. Burroughs
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Winter Room Virus
Wind is fighting poor fir trees outside of the window, but that is outside of the window. There is an entire world in here, out of the wind and the cold and the horrid winter snow. The sky is grey and threatening a storm and my bed is warm, even without you, and I don’t even care if you are out there. Winter is threatening and teasing with a beautiful calm, but that is only for now and...
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The other night a poet that I really admire said to me, “fuck rhyming!” He said that it wasn’t important, that it was fine when it was needed, but that it wasn’t ever really needed at all.
The other night I talked to a girl far away about love, and I told myself to remember every line because we seem to live in poetry, but I realised after that real life and written poety...
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“What would you like? There’s orange juice, milk, beer, and there’s always tap water.” They stood next to each other and stared into his fridge. “Or I also have scotch,” he said. “Well, Johnny Walker. But I also have vodka and maybe even some rum.” “I think I’ll just have some water,” she said. “Okay,” he said, and he...
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Don’t bring her away Out of winter’s whitest sands Fallen snow in hand
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We sadly take a tumble, stumble and fall and write a few lines while your tailbone aches and you only want to lie in bed for three days. That is a winter love, burdened by icy rains and terrible pains sprinkled beneath fresh snow and terrible poetry and prose.
We clear away the snow, step outside and watch the sun shine while the heart breaks and you only want to say that it’s not your...
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And Tomorrow
And today brings more love from the faces hiding in the dark. There are bottoms of wells, bridges, and bottles, but these balloons are uplifting. The songs we sing are soundly enlightening in the lightening mood, and today brings more love, although it has travelled quite far. Over bridges and in balloons, this love has survived. With one little postcard, the love can patiently cry. And today...
January 2012
46 posts
1 tag
Like footprints in snow, I know where I am heading. No doubt in the world
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“Take, O, take those lips away,
That so sweetly were forsworn;
And those eyes,...”
– from Measure For Measure (4.1.1-6) by William Shakespeare
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“I have produced too many poems about cigarettes,” he said. “Love poems?” “Nope, they all suck.” He pulled his jacket on and doubled over to tie his boots. “What do you write love poems about, then?” “Love,” he smiled. “You’re hilarious,” she said and opened the door. “Thanks. Want one?” “Please.”...