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  1. #361
    Senior Member Noon's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jul 2010


    by Stacie Cassarino

    The day my body caught fire
    the woodland darkened. The horizon
    was a sea of maids, rushing to piece me
    back into a girl. Out of the girl came yellow
    flowers, came stem & sepal.
    You never happened, they said.
    The meadow was a narration of lessness.
    Inside the corral, horses fell
    from the impact of the lightning. They broke
    down. I heard gunshots in my sleep.
    I was a keeper of breath,
    of hay. I walked a field, collecting bones.
    You can build a house out of bones.
    You can stand at the doorway
    quarrelling with your legs to enter
    or run until you turn to ash.

  2. #362
    Senior Member Noon's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jul 2010


    A few from Seam, all by Tarfia Faizullah.

    Interviewer's Note (iv)
    Today there is no drinking
    water today there is no
    light today there is only
    kerosene the hmm hmm hmm
    of a generator pulsing deep
    into the exhausted darkness
    you write the word shame --
    It is possible to live without
    Nietzsche said but
    is it possible to live with it?

    En Route to Bangladesh, Another Crisis of Faith (ii)
    We pass over heavy shadows
    of large clouds pinned to train cars

    lined up like unused blocks
    of colored chalk -- red then green,

    blue then orange -- until we are
    propelled higher, and the trains

    are swallowed by these jagged
    strictures of land that are no longer

    sand nor rock nor water, but a child's
    drawing instead -- until the distant ocean

    is the only fabric that fills this punched-
    out plastic hole of a window -- that is

    the blue that falls over everything, that is
    everything -- blue on blue on blue -- like the one

    seam of light left always on the airplane ceiling
    that the pale, plastic shades cannot shut away --

    until that narrow vein of light is the only
    belief left, a cream-thick ribbon across our eyes --

    Reading Celan at the Liberation War Museum

    In a courtyard, in these stacks of chairs
    before the empty stage -- near are
    we Lord, near and graspable.
    accept these humble offerings:

    stacks of biscuits wrapped in cellophane,
    stacks of bone in glass: thighbone,
    spine. Stacks of white saucers, porcelain
    circles into which stacks of lip-worn

    cups slide neat. Jawbone, Lord. Galleries
    of laminated clippings declaring war.
    Hands unstack chairs into rows. The dead:
    they still go begging.
    What for, Lord?

    Blunt bayonets, once sharp as wind?
    Moon-pale stacks of clavicle? A hand --


    Moon-pale stacks of clavicle a hand
    brushes dust from. I lost a word
    that was left to me: sister.
    The wind
    severs through us -- we sit, wait

    for songs of nation and loss in neat
    long rows below this leaf-green

    flag -- its red-stitched circle stains
    us blood-bright blossom, stains

    us river-silk -- I saw you, sister, standing
    in this brilliance
    -- I saw light sawing

    through a broken car window, thistling
    us pink -- I saw, sister, your bleeding

    head, an unfurling shapla flower
    petaling slow across mute water --


    Petaling slow
    across mute water,
    bows of trawlers
    skimming nets
    of silver fish that ripple
    through open
    hands that will carve them
    less. We were hands,
    we scooped
    the darkness empty.
    are rooted bodies in rows silent before
    the sparked blue limbs of dancers
    leafing the dark
    light indigo, then
    jasmine alighting
    into a cup, then
    hands overturning
    postcards bearing flag
    and flower, hands
    cradling the replica of a boat,
    thrust there and into
    a corpse, sister, bathed
    jasmine, blue --


    you teach you teach your hands to sleep
    because her hands can't hold the shape
    of a shapla flower cut from its green leaf
    because her hands can't hold grief
    nor light nor sister ... in her hands fistfuls
    of her own hair ... on her wrists glass bangles
    like the one you struggled over your hand
    the same hand that slapped a sister's wan
    face ... look ... the young girl stands before
    the photo of the young woman who swore
    she would not become the old woman
    crouched low on a jute mat holding
    out to you a bangle ... a strange lostness was
    bodily present ... you came near to living


    Bodily present, you came near to living,
    Poet, in this small blue dress still stained,

    the placard states, with the blood of the child
    crushed dead by a soldier's boot. Who failed

    and fails? -- nights you couldn't bear the threshed
    sounds of your heart's hard beating. I press

    a button: 1971 springs forth: black and white
    bodies marching in pixelated rows. Nights

    you resuscitated the Word, sea-overflowed,
    A pixelated woman tied

    with a white rope to a black pole, her white
    sari embroidered with mud or blood. Nights

    you were the wax to seal what's unwritten --
    the screen goes white in downdrifting light.


    The screen goes white. In downdrifting light,
    the stairwell is a charred tunnel. We walk out
    of it into a courtyard -- my skirt flares a rent
    into the burnt evening. Something was silent,

    something went its way
    -- something gnashes
    inside me, sister -- along the yellow gashes
    of paint guiding me through these rooms lined
    with glass cases, past machine gun chains

    shaped into the word Bangla. Here, on this
    stage, a dancer bows low her limbs
    once more before us. The stage goes silent.
    We gather ourselves: souvenirs of bone.

    Pray, Lord. We are near. Near are we, Lord --
    in a courtyard, in these stacks of chairs.
    Likes LonestarCowgirl liked this post

  3. #363
    Senior Member Noon's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jul 2010


    This part from Ronald Johnson's Beams 21, 22, 23, The Song of Orpheus :

    Thunder amid held daffodil,
    the hills of yellow celandine in sudden sun

    'when the light walk'.

    When the light walks, clockwise, counterclockwise,
    atoms memorize the firefly's wing
    silhouette 20 foot elm leaf
    (worm's-eye view through three crisscross timothy stalks).
    A blue hinged green at edge, the twilight
    sinks as if half swimmer
    - ankles in wrinkle through wood turtle
    swallowing scarlet strawberry,
    waist deep the warp then roof of star split clover, one pale
    eye spool rayed Orion
    thistle silk through soil particle -
    to Euridice. Head deep
    in neither
    aether, nether:

    "You will find, to the left of The House of Hades, a spring . . .

    one white leafed cypress at its side".

  4. #364
    Senior Member
    Join Date
    Jun 2014


    Nature's first green is gold,
    Her hardest hue to hold.
    Her early leaf's a flower;
    But only so an hour.
    Then leaf subsides to leaf,
    So Eden sank to grief,
    So dawn goes down to day
    Nothing gold can stay.

    - Robert Frost
    Likes Flâneuse, Kas liked this post

  5. #365
    just a vessel EJCC's Avatar
    Join Date
    Aug 2008
    173 so/sx


    Quote Originally Posted by wolfy View Post
    Bluebird. Bukowski

    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too tough for him,
    I say, stay in there, I'm not going
    to let anybody see
    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I pour whiskey on him and inhale
    cigarette smoke
    and the ****s and the bartenders
    and the grocery clerks
    never know that
    in there.

    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too tough for him,
    I say,
    stay down, do you want to mess
    me up?
    you want to screw up the
    you want to blow my book sales in
    there's a bluebird in my heart that
    wants to get out
    but I'm too clever, I only let him out
    at night sometimes
    when everybody's asleep.
    I say, I know that you're there,
    so don't be
    then I put him back,
    but he's singing a little
    in there, I haven't quite let him
    and we sleep together like
    with our
    secret pact
    and it's nice enough to
    make a man
    weep, but I don't
    weep, do

    This one's really been getting to me recently.
    EJCC: "The Big Questions in my life right now: 1) What am I willing to live with? 2) What do I have to live with? 3) What can I change for the better?"
    Coriolis: "Is that the ESTJ Serenity Prayer?"

    ESTJ - LSE - ESTj (mbti/socionics)
    1w2/7w6/3w4 so/sx (enneagram)
    want to ask me something? go for it!

  6. #366
    Senior Member senza tema's Avatar
    Join Date
    Oct 2014


    Love After Love
    -Derek Walcott

    The time will come
    when, with elation
    you will greet yourself arriving
    at your own door, in your own mirror
    and each will smile at the other's welcome,

    and say, sit here. Eat.
    You will love again the stranger who was your self.
    Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
    to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

    all your life, whom you ignored
    for another, who knows you by heart.
    Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

    the photographs, the desperate notes,
    peel your own image from the mirror.
    Sit. Feast on your life.

  7. #367
    Join Date
    Jul 2014
    5w4 sx/sp


    Walt Whitman

    Warble for Lilac-Time

    WARBLE me now, for joy of Lilac-time,
    Sort me, O tongue and lips, for Nature’s sake, and sweet life’s sake—and death’s the same as life’s,
    Souvenirs of earliest summer—birds’ eggs, and the first berries;
    Gather the welcome signs, (as children, with pebbles, or stringing shells;)
    Put in April and May—the hylas croaking in the ponds—the elastic air,
    Bees, butterflies, the sparrow with its simple notes,
    Blue-bird, and darting swallow—nor forget the high-hole flashing his golden wings,
    The tranquil sunny haze, the clinging smoke, the vapor,
    Spiritual, airy insects, humming on gossamer wings,
    Shimmer of waters, with fish in them—the cerulean above;
    All that is jocund and sparkling—the brooks running,
    The maple woods, the crisp February days, and the sugar-making;
    The robin, where he hops, bright-eyed, brown-breasted,
    With musical clear call at sunrise, and again at sunset,
    Or flitting among the trees of the apple-orchard, building the nest of his mate;
    The melted snow of March—the willow sending forth its yellow-green sprouts;
    —For spring-time is here! the summer is here! and what is this in it and from it?
    Thou, Soul, unloosen’d—the restlessness after I know not what;
    Come! let us lag here no longer—let us be up and away!
    O for another world! O if one could but fly like a bird!
    O to escape—to sail forth, as in a ship!
    To glide with thee, O Soul, o’er all, in all, as a ship o’er the waters!
    —Gathering these hints, these preludes—the blue sky, the grass, the morning drops of dew;
    (With additional songs—every spring will I now strike up additional songs,
    Nor ever again forget, these tender days, the chants of Death as well as Life;)
    The lilac-scent, the bushes, and the dark green, heart-shaped leaves,
    Wood violets, the little delicate pale blossoms called innocence,
    Samples and sorts not for themselves alone, but for their atmosphere,
    To tally, drench’d with them, tested by them,
    Cities and artificial life, and all their sights and scenes,
    My mind henceforth, and all its meditations—my recitatives,
    My land, my age, my race, for once to serve in songs,
    (Sprouts, tokens ever of death indeed the same as life,)
    To grace the bush I love—to sing with the birds,
    A warble for joy of Lilac-time.
    Likes five sounds liked this post

  8. #368
    Center ESFJ's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jun 2014
    9w1 sx/sp


    Dover Beach
    By Matthew Arnold

    The sea is calm tonight.
    The tide is full, the moon lies fair
    Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
    Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
    Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
    Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
    Only, from the long line of spray
    Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
    Listen! you hear the grating roar
    Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
    At their return, up the high strand,
    Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
    With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
    The eternal note of sadness in.

    Sophocles long ago
    Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
    Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
    Of human misery; we
    Find also in the sound a thought,
    Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

    The Sea of Faith
    Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
    Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
    But now I only hear
    Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
    Retreating, to the breath
    Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
    And naked shingles of the world.

    Ah, love, let us be true
    To one another! for the world, which seems
    To lie before us like a land of dreams,
    So various, so beautiful, so new,
    Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
    Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
    And we are here as on a darkling plain
    Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
    Where ignorant armies clash by night.
    「In that which is night to all things, therein the self-subjugated remains awake; but where all else is awake, that is night for the knower of the self. 」

    Likes Flâneuse liked this post

  9. #369
    Biting Shards Dr Mobius's Avatar
    Join Date
    Jul 2010
    7w8 sp/sx


    By Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy

    We are the music-makers,
    And we are the dreamers of dreams,
    Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
    And sitting by desolate streams;
    World-losers and world-forsakers,
    On whom the pale moon gleams:
    Yet we are the movers and shakers
    Of the world for ever, it seems.

    With wonderful deathless ditties
    We build up the world's great cities,
    And out of a fabulous story
    We fashion an empire's glory:
    One man with a dream, at pleasure,
    Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
    And three with a new song's measure
    Can trample an empire down.

    We, in the ages lying
    In the buried past of the earth,
    Built Nineveh with our sighing,
    And Babel itself with our mirth;
    And o'erthrew them with prophesying
    To the old of the new world's worth;
    For each age is a dream that is dying,
    Or one that is coming to birth.
    Just looking for a protector, God never reached out in time, There's love, that is a saviour, But that ain't no love of mine
    My Love it kills me slowly, Slowly I could die, And when she sleeps she hears the blues, Sees shades of black and white
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  10. #370
    Fabula rasa Kas's Avatar
    Join Date
    Apr 2015


    by Seamus Heaney

    Between my finger and my thumb
    The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

    Under my window, a clean rasping sound
    When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
    My father, digging. I look down

    Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
    Bends low, comes up twenty years away
    Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
    Where he was digging.

    The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
    Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
    He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
    To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
    Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

    By God, the old man could handle a spade.
    Just like his old man.

    My grandfather cut more turf in a day
    Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
    Once I carried him milk in a bottle
    Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
    To drink it, then fell to right away
    Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
    Over his shoulder, going down and down
    For the good turf. Digging.

    The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
    Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
    Through living roots awaken in my head.
    But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

    Between my finger and my thumb
    The squat pen rests.
    I’ll dig with it.
    “The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes." A.C. Doyle

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