I was satisfied with haiku until I met you,
jar of octopus, cuckoo’s cry, 5-7-5,
but now I want a Russian novel,
a 50-page description of you sleeping,
another 75 of what you think staring out
a window. I don’t care about the plot
although I suppose there will have to be one,
the usual separation of the lovers, turbulent
seas, danger of decommission in spite
of constant war, time in gulps and glitches
passing, squibs of threnody, a fallen nest,
speckled eggs somehow uncrushed, the sled
outracing the wolves on the steppes, the huge
glittering ball where all that matters
is a kiss at the end of a dark hall.
At dawn the officers ride back to the garrison,
one without a glove, the entire last chapter
about a necklace that couldn’t be worn
inherited by a great-niece
along with the love letters bound in silk.
“Changing Genres” by Dean Young, from Fall Higher. © Copper Canyon Press, 2011.
Water, Pooling in the Dark
An homage to William Burroughs
By Karolina MankoThe aquamarine sky ripples in windows.
South Campus. North Campus. I sit
with Sarah and talk about blue paint
and iambic pentameter. “Is this the face
that launched a thousand ships?”
clap. clap. clap. clap….
One of my friends wrote this, do me a favor and check it out and like/reblog so she can win her poetry competition. Merci, my loves.
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Alan Rickman | Sonnet 130
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
Oh Alan.
Sometimes the only way I can rationalize how Youtube commenters are actually real people is by pretending that they are just writing some bizarre, new-age poetry.
It’s dadaist
If your eyes were not the color of the moon,
of a day full [here, interrupted by the baby waking — continued about 26
hours later ]
of a day full of clay, and work, and fire,
if even held-in you did not move in agile grace like the air,
if you were not an amber week,
not the yellow moment
when autumn climbs up through the vines;
if you were not that bread the fragrant moon
kneads, sprinkling its flour across the sky,
oh, my dearest, I could not love you so!
But when I hold you I hold everything that is —
sand, time, the tree of the rain,
everything is alive so that I can be alive:
without moving I can see it all:
in your life I see everything that lives.
