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Tag Archives: women

a Mercedes’s engine

will take us

elsewhere in town,

Janis,

wound long hair

no longer crying

nervous fingers on scrim

scratched desires a blow

pocket and liquid

all our good expectations

for nothing

nor do I write about drops

and missing faces and ecoes and February storm

a castle is a castle

she told her tail

a castle downthere

on the white wall

she signed the picture

demure hands, a fortitude as well

let her not think to photos

and other pretty souvenirs

and money

they lay under clothes

hidden in the wardrobe

Love’s Ghost

Among the leaves and the rolls of moonlight,
The moon, which weaves lace on the road-white
Among the winds, and among the flowers,
Our blithe feet wander — life is ours!

Life is ours, and life is loving;
All our powers are locked in loving;
Hearts, and eyeys, and lips are moving
With the ecstasy of loving.

Ah! the roses! they are blooming;
And the June air, throbbing, tuning,
Sings of Love’s eternal summer —
Chants of Joy, life’s only Comer;
And we clsp our hands together,
Singing in the war, sweet weather;
Kissing, thrilling with caressing,
All the sweet from Love’s rose pressing.

Ah, so easy! — Earth is Heaven, —
Darkness, shadows, do not live;
Like the rose our hearts are given,
Like the rose whos blom is given,
To the sun-gold, and the heaven.
Not because it wills or wishes,
But because ‘tis life to give.

Dreary, dreary, snow-filled darkness!
Heavy, weary, voiceless darkness!

We have drifted, drifted, drifted, you and I,
Far apart as snows and roses, sea and sky.
We have drifted, drifted, drifted, far asunder,
Any my lonely voice uplifted in sad wonder,
Heavy with its own sad calls.

All your love was of the summer;
Born to die among the roses,
Wither, scatter, like the roses,
Leaving me the gray-browed Comer,
With the ashes on his forehead,
And the winter in his hair,
With the footsteps slow and solemn
Going down the endless stair,
Joy is gone and you, my Lover,
Gone in other ways to hover;
gone among the summer places,
Gone to seek for summer faces.

Bright-faced Joy was not for me;
Born among the snows and pines,
Gray-faced Sorrow was to be
Imaged in my mournful lines.

Love, not born for cold and sorrow,
Only for the sweet sunshine,
I shall keep your face forever
Hidden in this heart of mine.
In its light, one spot will brighten,
Keeping fair the sacred tomb;
Like old moonlight it will whiten
The inviolable room;
Like the moonlight it will whiten,

Softly, all the darkened room;
And the broken stalk may put forth
Memory’s ghost of Love’s old bloom.

March 1892

roses on the road

roses on the road

 

68

LIFE CHANT

 

                                                                                                          may it come that all the radiances

will be known as our own radiance

Tibetan Book of the Dead

cacophony of small birds at dawn

         may it continue

sticky monkey flowers on bare brown hills

         may it continue

bitter taste of early miner’s lettuce

          may it continue

music on city streets in the summer nights

          may it continue

kids laughing on roofs on stoops on the beach in the snow

           may it continue

triumphal shout of the newborn

           may it continue

deep silence of great rainforests

           may it continue

fine austerity of jungle peoples

           may it continue

rolling fuck of great whales in turqoise ocean

           may it continue

clumsy splash of pelican in smooth bays

          may it continue

astonished human eyeball squinting thru aeons at astonished nebulae who squint back

          may it continue

clean snow on the mountain

          may it continue

fierce eyes, clear light of the aged

          may it continue

rite of birth & of naming

          may it continue

 

a song in the front yard

 

I’ve stayed in the front yard all my life.

I want a peek at the back

Where it’s rough and untended and hungry weed grows,.

A girl gets sick of a rose.

 

I want to go in the back yard now

And maybe down the alley,

To where the charity children play.

I want a good time today.

 

They do some wonderful things.

They have some wonderful fun.

My mother sneers, but I say it’s fine

How they don’t have to go in a quarter to nine.

My mother, she tells me that Johnnie Mae

Will grow up to be a bad woman.

That george’ll be taken to Jail soon or late

(On account of last winter he sold our back gate).

 

But I say it’s fine. Honest, I do.

And I’d like to be a bad woman, too,

And wear the brave stocking of night-black lace

And strut down the streets with paint on my face.

 

MY DREAMS, MY WORKS, MUST WAIT TILL AFTER HELL

 

I hold my honey and I store my bread

In little jars and cabinets of my will.

I label clearly, and each latch and lid

I bid, be firm till I return from hell.

I am very hungry. I am incomplete.

And none can give me any word but Wait,

The puny light. I keep my eyes pointed in;

Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt

Drag out to their last dregs and i resume

On such legs as are left me, in such heart

As I can manage, remember to go home,

My taste will not have turned insensitive

To honey and bread old purity could love.

 

AFTER  LOVE

Afterward, the compromise.

Bodies resume their boundaries.

 

These legs, for istance, mine.

Your arms take you back in.

 

Spoons of our fingers, lips

admit their ownership.

 

The bedding yawns, a door

blows aimlessly ajar

 

and overhead, a plane

singssongs coming down.

 

Nothing is changed, except

there was a moment when

 

the wolf, the mongering wolf

who stands outside the self

 

lay lightly down, and slept.

On the Subway

 

               The boy and I face each other. 
               His feet are huge, in black sneakers 
               laced with white in a complex pattern like a 
               a set of intentional scars. We are stuck on 
               opposite sides of the car, a couple of 
               molecules stuck in a rod of light 
               rapidly moving through darkness. He has the 
               casual cold look of a mugger, 
               alert under hooded lids. He is wearing 
               red, like the inside of the body 
               exposed. I am wearing dark fur, the 
               whole skin of an animal taken and 
               used. I look at his raw face, 
               he looks at my fur coat, and I didn't 
               know if I am in his power- 
               he could take my coat so easily, my 
               briefcase, my life- 
               of if he is in my power, the way I am 
               living off his life, eating the steak 
               he does not eat, as if I am taking 
               the food from his mouth. And he is black 
               and I am white, and without meaning or 
               trying to I must profit from his darkness, 
               the way he absorbs the murderous beams of the 
               nation's heart, as black cotton 
               absorbs the heat of the sun and holds it. There is 
               no way to know how easy this 
               white skin makes my life, this 
               life he could take so easily and 
               break across his knee like a stick the way 
               his own back is being broken, the 
               rob of his soul that at birth was dark and 
               fluid and rich as the heart of a seedling 
               ready to thrust up into any available light.

Yeah Yeah Yeahs , wedding song

Brigitte, ma benz

Lisa Germano, apathy and the devil

Mazzy Star , california

Patti Smith, dancing barefoot

True Widow, fourth theeth

Emily Wells, waltz of the dearly beloved

Rainer Maria, tin foil

Far Apart, Hazel

upside down
upside down

upside down

She was a/and almost Saintly Woman

for  Marilyn Monroe

She was a/and almost saintly woman

hovering

a stuttering angel

melting her

(she would have said

it is so wonderful

so marvelous to be happy

but one had to see

that not all misery

is hidden)

she would show how

horses are tamed

how films are made

what her legs looked like

underneath the

finest silk those

men who owned

her made her

wear

she

would tell

of castles

wedding bells &

baseball

literature

a still expandable

( if only in her mind) field

called psychiatry

she would

& did

fight

dogfoods without

mentioning dogs

union locals

barhalls &

stadium crowds

& suddenly

there

was

no

stuttering

angel/even

to say

hello

& there was

no saint

& no

time left

only empty railroad tracks

to move about

deserted wooden station

musky

unoccupated afternoons

so she went

where no one

wanted her to go.

where no one

would listen to her

where everyone

would hear

 

marilyn