Posts Tagged ‘Poem’

Wednesday Wistful #5

Yearn On

I want you to feel
the unbearable lack of me.
I want your skin
to yearn for the soft lure of mine;
I want those hints of red
on your canvas
to deepen in passion for me:
carmine, burgundy.
I want you to keep
stubbing your toe
on the memory of me;
I want your head to be dizzy
and your stomach in a spin;
I want you to hear my voice
in your ear, to touch your face
imagining it is my hand.
I want your body to shiver and quiver
at the mere idea of mine.
I want you to feel as though
life after me is dull, and pointless,
and very, very aggravating;
that with me you were lifted
on a current you waited all your life to find,
as though you were wading
through a soggy swill of inanity and ugliness
every minute we are apart.
I want you to drive yourself crazy
with the fantasy of me,
and how we will meet again, against all odds,
and there will be tears and flowers,
and the vast relief of not I,
but us.
I am haunting your dreams,
conducting these fevers
from a distance,
a distance that leaves me weeping,
and storming,
and bereft.

Katie Donovan Born 1962

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(Late) Wednesday Wistful #4

The Trees

The Trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too.
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In full thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

Philip Larkin 9.08.22 – 02.12.85

Wednesday Wistful #3

Cut

for Susan O’Neill Roe

What a thrill —-
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge

Of skin,
A flap like a hat,
Dead white.
Then that red plush.

Little pilgrim,
The Indian’s axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Carpet rolls

Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.

Whose side are they one?
O my
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to kill

The thin
Papery feeling.
Saboteur,
Kamikaze man —-

The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux Klan
Babushka
Darkens and tarnishes and when
The balled
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence

How you jump —-
Trepanned veteran,
Dirty girl,
Thumb stump.

Sylvia Plath 27.10.32 – 11.02.63

RIP Mahmoud Darwish 1941 – 2008

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Rita And The Rifle

Between Rita and my eyes
There is a rifle
And whoever knows Rita
Kneels and plays
To the divinity in those honey-colored eyes
And I kissed Rita
When she was young
And I remember how she approached
And how my arm covered the loveliest of braids
And I remember Rita
The way a sparrow remembers its stream
Ah, Rita
Between us there are a million sparrows and images
And many a rendezvous
Fired at by a rifle

***

Rita’s name was a feast in my mouth
Rita’s body was a wedding in my blood
And I was lost in Rita for two years
And for two years she slept on my arm
And we made promises
Over the most beautiful of cups
And we burned in the wine of our lips
And we were born again

***

Ah, Rita!
What before this rifle could have turned my eyes from yours
Except a nap or two or honey-colored clouds?
Once upon a time
Oh, the silence of dusk
In the morning my moon migrated to a far place
Towards those honey-colored eyes
And the city swept away all the singers
And Rita

***

Between Rita and my eyes—
A rifle

Wednesday Wistful #2

Mausoleum

King’s-heart. Kernel of a lofty
lordly-tree. Balsam-fruit.
Golden heart-nut. Poppy of urns
in the middle of the middle-building
(where the reverberation cracks off
like a splinter of stillness
when you bestir yourself,
since it seems to you
that your previous
bearing was too loud…),
nation evaded,
star-minded,
in the invisible circle
circling king’s-heart.

Where, whither is
the nimble lover’s
one?
: Smile, from without,
placed onto the hesitant
roundness of cheerful fruits;
or for the moth, perhaps,
costliness, gauze-winging, feeler…

Where, but where that which sang her,
that which sang her into one,
the poet’s-heart?
: Wind,
invisible,
wind-innerness.

Rainer Maria Rilke 04.12.1875 – 29.12.1926

Wednesday Wistful #1

Ecstasy

As we made love on the third day,
cloudy and dark, as we did not stop
but went into it and into it and
did not hesitate and did not hold back we
rose up through the air, until we were up above
timber line. The lake lay
icy and silver, the surface shirred,
reflecting nothing. The black rocks
lifted around it into the grainy
sepia air, the patches of snow
brilliant white, and even though we
did not know where we were, we could not
speak the language, we could hardly see, we
did not stop, rising with the black rocks
to the black hills, the black
mountains rising from the hills. Resting
on the crest of the mountains, one huge
cloud with scalloped edges of blazing
evening light, we did not turn back,
we stayed at it, even though we were
far beyond what we knew, we rose
into the grain of the cloud, even though
nothing grew there, even though it is a
place from which no one has ever come back.

Sharon Olds (19.11.42 – )