| 7:38 pm - Sparrow |
 stitched_up_mew Fly away, Silently singingFreedom searching Take flight on wings Made of stardust and cloudEscape the dirty, taunting manLet your aspirations be your guide into the unknown Let your sorrow keep you adrift Oh, sweet sparrow, whose voice haunts my soul Why do you touch the ground When you could live amongst clouds instead?Are humans more fun to watchAre they more fun to tease?With their heads in the clouds And meager thoughts flying aboutLike deformed childrenThey grow into monsters And they takeNever giving Are you disgusted by our useless Ideas?The fire or touching the sunThe lips pressed to windowsEyes searching for answers Where there are no questions Yes, we must seem so silly to youAnd cruel as wellIs it wrong to you that we blind you Ad make you sing?I’m sure you must not mind much, For it takes a willing subject to be caught By unskilled men’s handsBut sparrow If I couldI’d leave with you And leave this disserted no mans landTo forever be in your graceSparrow,Goodbye until we meet againI will always look to you as a friend (comment on this) |
| Thursday, August 12th, 2010 |
| 12:47 pm - New member: "Reincarnation" |
 luna_bear8 Hi, I'm a new member here, my name's Luna and I'm a poet. I hope you enjoy my writings. I don't know how I have ended up in this position but its where I am. The rain it calls my name and I know what the soft beating of drums and chimes in the open air represents. Tears streamin own my cheeks like a new emotion as those lovers here. But I will remain silent, so talk to me like you and I were meant to. The old tragedies I have buried outside of a closet that was once so deep and the chimes called my name outside to a blissfull place. They told me that my desires were like that of a newly lit fire. We can love whom we choose? Is this true? Can two hearts ablaze trully be accepted? And now I have my hopes on a new love that would've been ready for you anytime!!! Exlamation marks to sooth the emotion that I have come to feel. But when I get so far I fall right back down again with my piano serenade. And I see her running through my garden and around the hedges of my abode. My daughter in pink pig-tails and could I forget that child? Could I resent her for the last breath in my quivering arms? And yet in all of this pain there you are coming too close and then moving away. And I can take the rain. Lord knows I can take the seasons of the rain and no it doesn't bother me. Going on without you has greatly upset me. When I have so much to say and I watch you walk away. When I deal with the pain of losing you I can't move. I know you and I share the same soul but yet I have come so close and yet you walk away. Loving you is what I am trying to do. This is what ails me, I cannot give you my best and what could've been will come of this I know. And yet I look into the mirror and into an open abyss of where my soul lingers. And yet behold I am shattered. You cut me into so many little pieces and I will bleed for you once again as I did in my past lives. And you refuse to believe like a stubborn child. I have come to ignore the difference but which of us do you know? I bleed, I bleed, I bleed. You said move on where do I go? You made it a point to have me think of you and yet I wish that I could look once again into your eyes. An Indian Summer in the middle of my winter is what you are to me my love. And in this life you gotta be the best. Listen as the day it unfolds. Love will always cause your tears but dont ever be ashamed to cry. All I know is that I will linger on my own puzzles but go on take a different view than me, help me be wiser. Challenge what the future holds my dear and always release them fears. You are hard and strong, hardness creates life through love so all I know is to be bold is to be wise. And when I asked my first "What is love?" Did he look at me in awe?! I will offer my pain time and time again for love, I welcome it to hurt me. I could never turn away a man due to biology and that is my confusion on what I find sexy. And now I have come into the sunshine on my silver canvas. I've been waiting for a moment all of my life but its not quite right he is a man that was currently my age when my loving heart was born. Is it so impossible to have my eyes rest on you in love? It feels so good to make it re-arrange into the dreams I have. So squinto your eyes and look closer I am thirty-two with a body of bliss so you might want to lift your head and forget the words you spoke in anger. I harbor only hatred for those who extinguishe love in the makings. Im nobody but I will be someone. So look closer next time as I pass you by. And I would like to state for the record that I'll do everything I can do for you. (comment on this) |
| Sunday, August 6th, 2006 |
| 3:02 pm - I Drink Alone. |
 cruxcharisma I Drink Alone© Crux Charismai want to run nakedthrough the cityscreamingthis is bullshitand leave nothing but burning rubblein my wakei want firecrackersto sear wrinklesin yourbotox smilebecause the media(and testosterone)tell mei must inseminate the woman with the largest breastsand smallest hipsso anothercomplacent ingratecan spill from her cuntand rape the planetmore**( Read more...Collapse )**concrit ALWAYS welcome. (comment on this) |
| Monday, September 19th, 2005 |
| 11:35 pm - Tremendous Seasons |
 in_a_dark_time Grave apologies if this is off-topic or not allowed. Crossposted everydamnwhere.I am interested in trying out a particular brand of discussion/conversation between two people. Anyone who's read Kerouac's On The Road and remembers Neal/Dean's and Allen/Carlo's "tremendous seasons" knows what I mean. Basically, "tremendous seasons" (for I know no other term for them) are marathon discussions, tangents allowed, in which two people speak whatever is on their minds, constantly exchanging and modifying ideas. For example--say we started talking about Russia. You mention Stalin; we talk on that for awhile. Stalin leads to Marx, which leads to The Communist Manifesto, which leads to political books in general, which leads to quotes from those books, etc.That's not to say that each topic wouldn't be discussed at length. A topic could go as long as necessary, or be only a bridge to another topic. Cassady and Ginsberg typically got hopped up on benzedrine before attempting these "tremendous seasons," and would stay up all night yammering away. I don't necessarily think drugs or loss of sleep are necessary.When/if I receive a reply, we can figure out a way to do this on LJ. What I'm thinking is this--we could start a diary or community to which we could both post, and the rules for a post would be:1. No deleting except to fix spelling errors. (I'd go without that, too, but I'm an English major.)2. Allow your mind to wander.3. Speak truthfully, honestly, and wholeheartedly about what's on your mind.4. Intelligent conversation is preferred, though I'm sure randomness and inside jokes will eventually creep in.5. In this case, long posts and rambling are not looked down upon--in fact, you might say they're encouraged.6. Possible beginning topics: society/sociology, trivia, belief systems, the nature of the soul, catharsis, life-changing books.Is this making any sense? If someone would like to join in, or help me come up with ideas, please do so. If this works tremendously well (nice pun, eh?), maybe an open community could be started, with multiple people engaged in myriad "tremendous seasons."Looking forward to getting started...Peace.current mood:  ambitious (2 comments | comment on this) |
| Tuesday, November 16th, 2004 |
| 5:12 pm - Anne Sexton |
 opheliablue I hope it is ok to post this here. I have checked the userinfo, but please delete if it's not ok. I've started an Anne Sexton community -  sextonpoetry - basically for ANYTHING Sexton-related - posting her poems, photos, discussing her, posting any Sexton-inspired poems of your own you have written, etc. I'm writing a book about Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath so I'll be asking for members' opinions/thoughts about various different issues sometimes too.If anyone is interested, I look forward to seeing you there! (comment on this) |
| Wednesday, September 15th, 2004 |
| 12:18 pm - A Day in America |
 novapsyche This is what writer's block looks like: pale, quiet, without motion. The key, they say, is to write anyway, but words have strange allegiances, they go wherever they'll be used. Tonight, away from the streetlights, a young girl will drop to her unstockinged knee for less than twenty dollars. Even in dark, dripping places, money goes wherever it wants. (1 comment | comment on this) |
| Saturday, August 21st, 2004 |
| 1:35 am - Foreshadow |
| novapsyche At the bar I sit next to him,young shock, beard scrag,a tic in his cheek like a song.Three sips of wine to go,then stem's up, my fourth in a row.The fight last night, the drinkfor someone else's girl, is stillin the floor as crumbs of glass.I notice when he touches my knee.Sand-small, swept in an arcby a careless broom. A parenthesis. (comment on this) |
| Monday, July 26th, 2004 |
| 7:53 am - A Rest |
| novapsyche To lie in the street naked, blood from my back,is a dream I had, or the cover of a book,the subject of which is nakedness,a streetwise nakedness, a poem I forsook.Between my thighs, a penis, another type of poem.It rises with my breath. It points to my blood.It protects me from the stares of passersby,it makes my impending death seem good.The road is awash now. I wish I could rise,grit for clothes, and make my ginger wayback to my bed of wholeness. But insteadI'll become a poem here for others to say. (comment on this) |
| Sunday, July 25th, 2004 |
| 7:43 pm |
 reluctantmuse "Whence Violet Came (for Rue and Violet Adderline)"Now, the violets lay on a that tilled plot of earthand the rue rues the day the violets cameand were set upon its plot of tilled earthFor whence the violets cameA plot was one that sat in a potthe Violets streathed out their leaveswith only the rue's protest to mindNext to that plot of tillsat one Miss Violet AdderlineWho weeps and rues the day which tookher father away and put him under a plot of tilled earthWhence Violet came, to be left byFather, Husband, or Son is to be left by allAnd tears, formed in eyes and skin, water rue and violetsrue and violets for Rue and Violet Adderline (comment on this) |
| Tuesday, June 29th, 2004 |
| 7:34 am - Miss Carrie |
| novapsyche The ditch her teeth lie in, blackand luminous, reflectsher mood. The spongeof gums, soft as sopping leaves,cushions her tongueand speech. And she speaksas though the numinous night could speak through her, make her a mediumaerated with smothered wind,choked and brackish, a breezein a clotted marsh.What would she say?Would she, swayinglike a waterlogged weed,take your hand, a mediumof a different kind, readthe seaweed on your palmand reveal the babies drownedin the bog of your womb?Would you stand still for such news? Orwould you retreat into the curtainsof rain, seeking strengthin wet saplings around you? (comment on this) |
| Thursday, June 17th, 2004 |
| 11:39 am |
| novapsyche The Main, a new literary magazine, seeks submissions for its first issue. This magazine is devoted entirely to poetry. The first issue, Fall 2004, will be available in October. The deadline for submissions is September 1.GuidelinesAll poems should be single-spaced, typed, with author’s contact information in the upper-right corner. Submit 3-6 poems, any subject, any style. 25-line limit. Rhyming poetry must be excellent. SASE required or poems will not be returned. Response should arrive within two months. Payment is one copy in which the author’s work appears.The Main is a quarterly. Single copies are 2.00;ayear’ssubscriptionis2.00; a year’s subscription is 2.00;ayear’ssubscriptionis5.00.Send poems and/or subscription requests to:_The Main_P.O. Box 970870Ypsilanti, MI 48198 (comment on this) |
| Tuesday, June 8th, 2004 |
| 1:21 am - Confession #8 |
| novapsyche There is incest in my hip.There is a chocolate sauceon my pinky finger, extended.My God, you are pink.I fluff up. I believe the sieveof memory will shore my shreds;you'll spill out and pool.***Together, tiger meat, sinewand champ, a lunging motion,longitudinal, barely scrappingbut to bite. There is the urgeto get away, for the prey.***I collect the tidein my hipbone. Waters swirland swerve. Cliffs, smoothas egg sacs, curl into the crash. (comment on this) |
| Saturday, May 22nd, 2004 |
| 2:43 pm - Memory |
| novapsyche I.She sets a box burning,wafting demons into the air, sootlings,snarls of paper whirling heavenward.Tax receipts, loans, mortgages.A singe to the bloodletting.A raucous good time. Newspaper-thin, smouldered, the film of her lifelifts to the sky. To the eastis a kite, swelled with scripsand blown bills, ancient recipes,schedules, calendars. Its tailis square with endeavorsof triangulation. The airreads through it, a guide.II.She keeps looking back and left,over her shoulder, making sure the paststays where it is, stationary.A tree in the ground. Everywhereshe sleeps, a seedling sprouts.III.Tornado tears. Photographsof a countryside laden with chickens,redolent with feed. A table,a cornucopia of fake fruit,a water glass turned on its lip.An arrow of time. The distendeduniverse, bacterium, lain outfor all to see.All sunshine is new. The world revolvesand she can't feel it. She is stuckwith images, the light bouncingfrom smoke to her eyes and back again. (comment on this) |
| Thursday, May 13th, 2004 |
| 1:10 pm - A New Phoenix |
 interestinghell A woman has cracked out of her marble prisonThe cool exterior ties no longer bindAnd here I stand, alone and freeThe shattered remains of my masks below my heelsUnfettered by my overdeveloped sense of inequityI can release myself to the worldThese ashes below me drift, inconsequential And I raise my fiery arms to the skyRejoicing in my futureUnalarmed by the prospect of embracing my self.The soul within me laughsAnd I prepare to rise again and love.Comments, critiques? anything's appreciated.current mood: busy (comment on this) |
| Tuesday, May 11th, 2004 |
| 7:28 pm - Confession #6 |
| novapsyche Fly with me, fly by me,I don't care. Take the tonguefrom my mouth, fill mewith aerosol lucidity. My tonguedoesn't matter. A hummingbirdwill fill my throat and hoverwhere my voice once stood, heardbut not heard, drawn yet uncovered.*The sun frets. I tearat my frayed shirt, arousedby the raggedness there.I am a stranger to water.My tongue is boundless, my mouthis false shelter. I lick the cloud,the coming storm. I pickat my flagging skin. Whata human shirt! What monstrosity!I swallow an oasis of dirt.I strip to my bones. The hummingbirdsnest in my organs. They seek the drought.*I lap at my lips. There is water there,below my nose, such a strangereservoir, the channel of curved skin,the tongue settling there like a raft.There is a drink of self, a bleedof sweat, an anguished spot of raindrenching the cheeks. The sun isn't real.The sky retreats, and the hummingbirdswith it, revealing a mouth of sand. (comment on this) |
| Monday, April 26th, 2004 |
| 12:53 am - Confession #5 |
| novapsyche The rat's whiskers are moonlight.They tickle the neck like fiberglass,scratching your skin.The night surrounds the rat like a river.The night is a liquid gloveand the rat is lost in its grasp. (comment on this) |
| Monday, March 22nd, 2004 |
| 9:59 pm - Feather Thrown (revision) |
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| Sunday, March 14th, 2004 |
| 12:49 pm - Listening to REM (an ode to sound) |
| novapsyche The piano in my earjingles in the curves, the soft pedalscrushed like velvet underfoot,rose petals bruised by toesdesiring violet gravity.The strung hammers, swollenby the thrum of vibration,drum through the liquid medium,quiver into the skin of sound(skimmed like stones on an oceanblack with space, a vacuumvortex swirled into motion).The perfume of orderblossoms along every nerve, furtheringitself into every square inchof muscle. The blood yearnsto lie in the shape of that piano,to take the depth of that graveand fashion it into air.Woe, the baby grand. (comment on this) |
| Friday, February 27th, 2004 |
| 7:31 pm - The One Who Got Away |
| novapsyche There are men you can't catch. There are menwho sidle down a winding sidewalkwhen you try to run your fingers through them.Ghosts flank their shadows. They dartin and out of alleyways, their facesfaintly captured in a bistro's picture windowas your eyes chase after them. (comment on this) |
| Wednesday, February 25th, 2004 |
| 8:23 pm - Ouroboros I |
| novapsyche Water snakes, comet tails with venomlie disguised as kelp. Liquid turns to skyas they strike and you gasp oceanwithin your lungs. Remember your amphibian daysin the womb, when you could breathe nutrientsas you lay swallowed in a sac: your cellscould make that exchange, blood for breathwith water flowing from your belly.You can't even cry now, your mouth so full of manna. Curious bubbles drift from your lipsto skim the surface. (comment on this) |