[{We Begin With A Poem}] (original) (raw)

It is ALIVE	[Dec. 25th, 2004|12:50 am]The {{Sadly}} Still Nameless JC Poetry Club
[How does that make you feel?** |accomplished] [Listen! There is music playing!**	These Arms Are Snakes, Gadget Arms]Favorite poem I can think of in the moment. Fuck you, ITS CHRISTMAS, BY THE WAY! (and I came out to my rents.. haha, my dad wont talk to me! Im excited!)God, I miss seeing the scuttle of Wojo le chauve in the halls. AAAAgh. Ici:Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love PoemBob HicokMy left hand will live longer than my right. The riversof my palms tell me so.Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finishat the same time. I thinkpraying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I thinkstaying up and waitingfor paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension thisis exactly what's happening,it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamicsof mournful Whistlers,the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.I like the idea of differenttheres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,a Bronx where people talklike violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehowkind, perhaps in the nookof a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayedanyone. Here I havetwo hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your backto rest my cheek against,your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.My hands are webbedlike the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezedsomething in the wombbut couldn't hang on. One of those other worldsor a life I feltpassing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother's bellyshe had to scream out.Here, when I say I never want to be without you,somewhere else I am sayingI never want to be without you again. And when I touch youin each of the places we meet,in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dyingand resurrected.When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,in each place and forever.
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The Club shall not die.	[Aug. 26th, 2004|02:16 pm]The {{Sadly}} Still Nameless JC Poetry Club
[How does that make you feel?** |dirty] [Listen! There is music playing!**	I'm at my mom's office... She's on the phone...]Anne Sexton. For those of you who don't know, she is good. This poem is so sad, it makes me bitter. :/ The last two lines esp. make me want to cry, but I refuse the tears absolutely. For my Lover, Returning to his WifeShe is all there.She was melted down carefully for youand cast up from your childhood,cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.She has always been there, my darling.She is, in fact, exquisite.Fireworks in the dull middle of Februaryand as real as a cast-iron pot. Let's face it, I have been momentary.A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.My hair rising like smoke from the car window.Littleneck clams out of season.She is more than that. She is your have to have,has grown you your practical tropical growth.This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy, has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,sat by the potter's wheel at midday,set forth three children under the moon,three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,done this with her legs spread outin the terrible months in the chapel.If you glance up, the children are therelike delicate balloons resting on the ceiling. She has also carried each one down the hall after supper, their heads privately bent,two legs protesting, person to person,her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.I give you back your heart.I give you permission--for the fuse inside her, throbbing angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in herand the burying of her wound--for the burying of her small red wound alive--for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,for the mother's knee, for the stockings,for the garter belt, for the call--the curious callwhen you will burrow in arms and breastsand tug at the orange ribbon in her hairand answer the call, the curious call.She is so naked and singular.She is the sum of yourself and your dream.Climb her like a monument, step after step.She is solid.As for me, I am a watercolor.I wash off.
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freak freak freakkk	[Aug. 8th, 2004|01:10 pm]The {{Sadly}} Still Nameless JC Poetry Club
[How does that make you feel?** |calm] [Listen! There is music playing!**	Jadakiss, Why?]MOONRISE The slow moon drawsThe shadows through the leaves. The change it weavesEludes design or pause. And here we waitIn moon a little space, And face to faceWe know the hour grows late. We turn from sleepAnd hold our breath a while, As mile on mileThe terror drifts more deep. So we must partIn ruin utterly- RealityInvades the crumbling heart. We scarce shall weepFor what no change retrieves. The moon and leavesShift here and there toward sleep.-by Yvor Winters
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Failing at most of my attempts...	[Aug. 5th, 2004|02:20 am]The {{Sadly}} Still Nameless JC Poetry Club
[How does that make you feel?** |restless] [Listen! There is music playing!**	Shai Hulud, Given Flight By Demon's Wings]I was just thinking of 10th grade English and how much that class changed my mind for the better, and of course I was drawn into thoughts of Sappho, and set off to research her a little more... I learn in snipets, always. Anyway, there was one fragment/poem that I read in that class that I remembered and set out to find, and what do you know? I found it. Two different translations of it, actually. I'm sure there are more. But still, all of this makes me angry and I actually am crying because in my mind I complain constantly at reading French poetry and seeing the discrepancies in the translations and the originals and it disgusts me, and here I am sobbing over Greek words when I wouldn't be able to comprehend the originals at all. So where is Wojo with his Greek-love?? These two translations could be SO WRONG, but they do run with what I remember... even though, what I remember was just something my teacher gave me, entirely English. UGH!Some regard cavalry and footmenMore lovely than anything existing on the blackened earthothers ships of war, but I say it is whatever you love.Each and all can see it simply:Helen herself, more beautifulby far than all, fled thegreatest of heroes, (her husband)Deserted him she did and forgotdaughter and parents too whensoon she fared to Troy by sea:so deeply was she changed by Cypris...----------Suddenly remembering Anaktoria, though already she is far.Her gentle steps and brilliant radianceform and face surrounding I preferredto Lydian infantry and dully gleaming wagons"~~~~Oh God, but you need this one too:To me he seems like a godas he sits facing you andhears you near as you speaksoftly and luaghin a sweet echo that joltsthe heart in my ribs. For nowas I look at you my voice is mpty and can say nothing as my tounguecracks and slender fire is quickunder my skin. My eyes are dead to light, my earspound, and sweat pours over me.I convulse, greener than grassand feel my mind slip as I go close to death, yet, being poor, must suffer everything. Sappho, friends. Haha, I am crying. Whatta fool. Where is Wojo? Do you think he would help the Greek-quest? Heh.
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lyrics are doable, no?	[Aug. 3rd, 2004|07:57 pm]The {{Sadly}} Still Nameless JC Poetry Club
[**How does that make you feel?** |weird]I may have been gazing out too late at nightI see a deeper window into my eyesEvery day they screech outside my window,The crashing cars never seem to collideSometimes when I'm staring out my windowTo catch the stars, I watch as they go byI've been getting messages from outer spaceThey expire light in the window in the skyThere goes my mindIf we dare walk onto my windowI could hear them if I open my eyesSometimes flashing lights seem soulful in the windowYou may have seen them circle me at nightI keep sending signals into outer spaceThey expire by your window in the skyThere goes my mindEvery day when restlessness takes over meI can't see it as I'm closing my eyesI keep sending signals into outer spaceThey expire light in the window in the skySometimes when I'm staring out my windowTo catch the stars, I watch as they go byI've been getting messages from outer spaceThey expire light in the window in the skyBy your window in the sky"Deeper into Movies"~Yo la TengoI love the words. And the song in general. :)<3
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To come around.	[Jul. 30th, 2004|12:24 am]The {{Sadly}} Still Nameless JC Poetry Club
[How does that make you feel?** |cynical] [Listen! There is music playing!**	Wilco, Spiders (Kidsmoke)]the lesson of the mothDon Marquis i was talking to a moththe other eveninghe was trying to break intoan electric light bulband fry himself on the wireswhy do you fellowspull this stunt i asked himbecause it is the conventionalthing for moths or whyif that had been an uncoveredcandle instead of an electriclight bulb you wouldnow be a small unsightly cinderhave you no senseplenty of it he answeredbut at times we get tiredof using itwe get bored with the routineand crave beauty and excitementfire is beautifuland we know that if we gettoo close it will kill us but what does that matterit is better to be happyfor a momentand be burned up with beautythan to live a long timeand be bored all the while so we wad all our life upinto one little rolland then we shoot the rollthat is what life is forit is better to be a part of beautyfor one instant and then cease toexist than to exist foreverand never be a part of beautyour attitude toward lifeis come easy go easywe are like human beings used to be before they becametoo civilized to enjoy themselvesand before i could argue himout of his philosophyhe went and immolated himself on a patent cigar lighteri do not agree with himmyself i would rather havehalf the happiness and twicethe longevitybut at the same time i wishthere was something i wantedas badly as he wanted to fry himself
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sapphosapphosapphoooo mmmmmm	[Jul. 28th, 2004|04:26 pm]The {{Sadly}} Still Nameless JC Poetry Club
[How does that make you feel?** |confused] [Listen! There is music playing!**	Taking BackSunday, I am Fred Astaire]Uhm. Read:Although they areonly breath, wordswhich I commandare immortal.--SapphoIn case that wasn't enough for today:**( Read more...Collapse )**Damn, if my room isn't messy. :-/
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Nervous Wreck.	[Jul. 26th, 2004|08:43 pm]The {{Sadly}} Still Nameless JC Poetry Club
[How does that make you feel?** |worried] [Listen! There is music playing!**	Bright Eyes, Drunk Kid Catholic]I have found myself liking this man. Levertov and Roethke, that is much of my obsessions lately. And lots of lots of nerves, bouncing nerves. I thought today was Tuesday until Allie took me out of my house. I need poems. I need to read poems. Who wants to throw a poem reading party?? You bring the drinks, I'll bring the fun... or I'll bring the flan, if you're Craig. In a Dark TimeTheodore RoethkeIn a dark time, the eye begins to see,I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;I hear my echo in the echoing wood--A lord of nature weeping to a tree,I live between the heron and the wren,Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.What's madness but nobility of soulAt odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!I know the purity of pure despair,My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,That place among the rocks--is it a cave,Or winding path? The edge is what I have.A steady storm of correspondences!A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,And in broad day the midnight come again!A man goes far to find out what he is--Death of the self in a long, tearless night,All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.Dark,dark my light, and darker my desire.My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?A fallen man, I climb out of my fear. The mind enters itself, and God the mind,And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
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"A word after a word after a word is power."	[Jul. 25th, 2004|07:20 pm]The {{Sadly}} Still Nameless JC Poetry Club
[How does that make you feel?** |anxious] [Listen! There is music playing!**	Bright Eyes, Method Acting]I read this in 10th grade, it was in our literature text book. I remember liking it, and there it was--sitting so lightly in this poetry community I read from daily and I only had to read the title and it all reminded me of something better. The River-Merchant's Wife: A LetterWhile my hair was still cut straight across my foreheadI played about the front gate, pulling flowers.You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.And we went on living in the village of Chokan:Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.At fourteen I married My Lord you.I never laughed, being bashful.Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.At fifteen I stopped scowling.I desired my dust to be mingled with yoursForever and forever and forever.Why should I climb the look out?At sixteen you departed,You went into far Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies,And you have been gone five months.The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.You dragged your feet when you went out.By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,Too deep to clear them away!The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.The paired butterflies are already yellow with AugustOver the grass in the West garden;They hurt me. I grow older.If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,Please let me know beforehand,And I will come out to meet youAs far as Cho-fu-Sa.-Rihaku (8th century A.D.)translated by Ezra Pound (in Cathay, 1915)
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For those I love and miss--	[Jul. 23rd, 2004|07:56 pm]The {{Sadly}} Still Nameless JC Poetry Club
[How does that make you feel?** |lonely] [Listen! There is music playing!**	Bright Eyes, Let's Not Shit Ourselves (To Love and Be Loved)]Wah. I find some pretty werds. I'm sweepy. Ici:Hugo WilliamsBar ItaliaHow beautiful it would be to wait for you again in the usual place, not looking at the door, keeping a lookout in the long mirror,knowing that if you are lateit will not be too late,knowing that all I have to dois wait a little longerand you will be pushing through the other customers,out of breath, apologetic.Where have you been, for God's sake?I was starting to worry.How long did we say we would waitif one of us was held up?It's been so long and still no sign of you.As time goes by, I search other faces in the bar,rearranging their featuresuntil they are monstrous versions of you,their heads wobbling from side to sidelike heads on sticks.Your absence inches forwarduntil it is standing next to me.Now it has taken a seat I was saving.Now we are face to face in the long mirror.I'm going to the place where the sun sets on the sea in 20 days. :D
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short poem	[Jul. 22nd, 2004|09:39 am]The {{Sadly}} Still Nameless JC Poetry Club
[**How does that make you feel?** |creative]here is a short little poem by emily dickinson. (a.k.a one of the best female poets EVER)To see the Summer SkyIs Poetry, though never in a Book it lie -True Poems flee -
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doors Close, doors Open	[Jul. 21st, 2004|09:15 pm]The {{Sadly}} Still Nameless JC Poetry Club
[How does that make you feel?** |mischievous] [Listen! There is music playing!**	Rufus Wainwright, April Fools]Did you know that if you take it literally, Bonjour is French for Good Day and not Hello? Yeah. Well, I'm right. Nah. Other than that, I've been writing, but I want other people's opinions on whether we should keep this thing going as it is, with other poet's poems, or whether we should make anything else. I like it as it is, just us, too. No Wojo, so I don't feel inadequate, and just pretty poems. But I want feedback. Just a little, I suppose. Whatever you'd like. But this a good poem. It makes me think of how Wojo told me to avoid dialogue, but doesn't this one work well?? I don't know. I like it. Zeroing In"I am a landscape," he said,"a landscape and a person walking in that landscape.There are daunting cliffs there,and plains glad in their wayof brown monotony. But especiallythere are sinkholes, placesof sudden terror, of small circumferenceand malevolent depths.""I know," she said. "When I set forthto walk in myself, as it might beon a fine afternoon, forgetting,sooner or later I come to where sedgeand clumps of white flowers, rue perhaps,mark the bogland, and I knowthere are quagmires there that can pull youdown, and sink you in bubbling mud.""We had an old dog," he told her, "when I was a boy,a good dog, friendly. But there was an injured spoton his head, if you happenedjust to touch it he'd jump up yelpingand bite you. He bit a young child,they had to take him to the vet's and destroy him.""No one knows where it is," she said,"and even by accident no one touches it:It's inside my landscape, and only I, making my waypreoccupied through my life, crossing my hills,sleeping on green moss of my own woods,I myself without warning touch it,and leap up at myself--""--or flinch backjust in time.""Yes, we learn thatIt's not terror, it's pain we're talking about:those places in us, like your dog's bruised head,that are bruised forever, that timenever assuages, never."-- Denise Levertov
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