gid_hanasheh (original) (raw)

I never reminisce a sorrow that delicately shaped.

Jan. 19th, 2012 | 12:51 am

posted by: xenoamorist in gid_hanasheh

Dean/Castiel

“Angels and Moths”

If a man once loved you,
he’s turned you into a moth.

That’s how he’ll remember
the flutter: that numinous,
that beating, that winged.

Angels and moths:
that’s who men love.

But I don’t recollect like that.
I don’t think I ever loved
that gently. And I’ve never
flown toward a burning
house, hoping, maybe
my faith lay in that
single thing left,
in that smoldering filigree.
I never reminisce
a sorrow that delicately shaped.

But sometimes I feel someone remembering
me that way: translucent,
crazy, awake only at night.
He’s regretting his fingertips
were not wide or soft enough.
He’s mourning me now.
He’s imagining me eating away
at someone else’s light.

And that’s perfect.
That’s exactly how
he always wanted to love
me. My wings,
my hair-like antennae
hanging;
my frenulum
between his forefinger
and his thumb.

— Olena Kalytiak Davis

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you descend on me like age

Dec. 10th, 2011 | 01:15 am

music: remain nameless - florence and the machine
posted by: maryferguson92 in gid_hanasheh

untitled | margaret atwood

I look up, you are standing
on the other side of the window

now your body
glimmers in the dark

room / you rise above me
smooth, chill, stone-

white / you smell of tunnels
you smell of too much time

I should have used leaves
and silver to prevent you

instead I summoned

you are not a bird you do not fly
you are not an animal you do not run

you are not a man

your mouth is nothingness
where it touches me I vanish

you descend on me like age
you descend on me like earth

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FAILURE (excerpt) | AHARON SHABTAI

Dec. 9th, 2011 | 03:40 pm

music: coffee stain - sarah harmer
posted by: maryferguson92 in gid_hanasheh

ummm things that seem to be about war on earth but are actually in truth about heaven's civil war:

I pray
for the failure
of this

stinking war

spread your wings,
and come, merciful failure,
come

Planes
rattle
toward Lebanon

driving
toward Ba’albek

to destroy
a bottle factory

I pray
that the plane

with a bomb in its belly

will be beaten by
the building’s ceiling

In the name of the beautiful
books I’ve read-

in the name of the kisses
I’ve kissed-

may the army be thwarted

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Brutal | Andrea Cohen

Dec. 9th, 2011 | 03:09 pm

music: Limit to your Love - Feist
posted by: maryferguson92 in gid_hanasheh

Brutal to give
the prisoner a window—
a blue sky glimpse—

as if an afterlife
existed. Brutal
for you to parade

in a body
in the same
room where I dream you.

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anything to become you

Nov. 4th, 2011 | 03:15 pm

posted by: zempasuchil in gid_hanasheh

Dinner with Rilke

Stay stock still if suddenly the angel
at your table decides to love you.
Pretend not to look by smoothing out the wrinkles
in the cloth under the bread and ham.

Offer him your own food
casually, to taste in turn, so you
can watch beauty as he puts
an everyday glass to his lips.

You can't help yourself, though
he's avid for everything, eating,
kissing, anything to become you,
to repossess your house.

- Jo Shapcott

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And my body I would betray for you

Oct. 6th, 2011 | 05:41 pm

posted by: zempasuchil in gid_hanasheh

Season 4 - Dean/Cas, Jimmy/Cas, you know.

from Masters of the Cante Jondo

(duet)

"And my body"
What ground is this?
"I would give to you"
Whose sky?
"And my body"
At whose table are we called to order?
"I would betray for you"

And what about order?
"Say it is nameless"
That we are nameless
"dust?"
and the shape of our walk become pages
become pavement underfoot
and overhead nothing, so clear that it
might finally break us, and that is good

The great-coats walk by, let them

-- Peter Gizzi

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Used-up Things

Jul. 30th, 2011 | 05:13 pm

posted by: thoughtsickles in gid_hanasheh

(This is a poem about Dean and his feelings, but it's also about Cas, so I think it counts.)

It’s one a.m in a unkept motel room
On a dirty bedspread.

Is there ever a clean one?

There are things I wish were mine to tell you, things you already know
The way a mechanic knows his engine
The way I know salt—a thing I have tasted, ingested, swum in,
Drowned in, felt seeping in every bend and crack.
There are things about my father, my brother, what I’ve done for them
To make them happy, to make them love me back, to keep them close—
I’m needy. You do what you have to, Baby, you live
The way you know how.

This is a truck stop in Missouri. This is the out of order
Men’s restroom with the flickering light that will make your eyes water
If you stand here long enough.
This is me alone on the road and my dad hasn’t called in five days.
These are the things you can’t tell my brother.

Does it ever bother you, how good you are at killing things? Is that why
You’re so hot for me, the one thing you got to put back together?
You would love me the way the fire loves a log,
Suffocating love. You and me, Baby, we’re too much the same.

I wish we didn’t know each other. I wish we met for the first time
When we were young, when I still thought happiness would solve everything.
I wish you were that first boy I’d crushed on, changing next to each other
In the locker room, knowing just enough to feel disgusting, hating the way
The sheen of your chest could make me blush.

I wish we were half-forgotten things like signatures in the front of a yearbook,
Like a heartbreak so old you feel it as a bruise,
only hurting when prodded.

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Each soul is a stone for the last days.

Jul. 17th, 2011 | 11:40 am

posted by: zempasuchil in gid_hanasheh

I went to the bookstore last summer and found a book of poetry called Looking for the Faces of God. I'm finally reading it. daaaaaaang.

I can't tell if this is Cas, or Death, or some crazy plan the Winchesters come up with in S7, but it's about souls.

WALLS

All day long I create a bulwark. I gather the living along with the dead and build a wall. Each soul is a stone for the last days. I am like Lot. I need to gather a city of souls to rebuke the God of fire.

There is a problem: these souls have to live in the heart. The heart expands, infinitely it seems, while my body thins according with the thinning of time. Perhaps I become a grotesque with an enlarged heart visibly ticking within my chest like a boy whose head is larger than his body can sustain.

This is my work. Men have built walls before but they were thinking of war. When I say we are stones, I am a woman who means that we fit against each other, that we breathe slowly, that we have been here from the beginning, that we can not be burned. And when the Lord of Fire comes and wants fifty souls, there will be fifty souls. We will stand up to Him. No one will be destroyed.

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Seaside Improvisation

Jul. 15th, 2011 | 08:44 pm

posted by: thoughtsickles in gid_hanasheh

Cas/Dean, "The Man Who Would Be King"

I take off my hands and I give them to you but you don't
want them, so I take them back
and put them on the wrong way, the wrong wrists. The yard is dark,
the tomatoes are next to the whitewashed wall,
the book on the table is about Spain,
the windows are painted shut.

Tonight you're thinking of cities under crowns

of snow and I stare at you like I'm looking through a window,

counting birds.

You wanted happiness, I can't blame you for that,

and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy

but tell me

you love this, tell me you're not miserable.

You do the math, you expect the trouble.

The seaside town. The electric fence.

Draw a circle with a piece of chalk. Imagine standing in a constant cone

of light. Imagine surrender. Imagine being useless.

A stone on the path means the tea's not ready,

a stone in the hand means somebody's angry, the stone inside you still

hasn't hit bottom.