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  • Every Day You Play {Poetry}

    Tuesday, February 17, 2015 Good Things, Photography, Poetry, Poetry Tuesday, Uncategorized , , Permalink

    cerezos

    Every Day You Play

    Every day you play with the light of the universe.
    Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
    You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
    as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

    You are like nobody since I love you.
    Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
    Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
    Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

    Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
    The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
    Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
    The rain takes off her clothes.

    The birds go by, fleeing.
    The wind. The wind.
    I can contend only against the power of men.
    The storm whirls dark leaves
    and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

    You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
    You will answer me to the last cry.
    Cling to me as though you were frightened.
    Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

    Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
    and even your breasts smell of it.
    While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
    I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

    How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
    my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
    So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
    and over our heads the gray light unwind in turning fans.

    My words rained over you, stroking you.
    A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
    I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
    I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
    dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
    I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

    Pablo Neruda

    1

    It’s no secret that I love Pablo Neruda’s poetry. The official start of spring is still over a month away and it certainly doesn’t feel very spring-like around here. However, my mind has been on spring.  I’m trying to think warm.  So far, it hasn’t worked, but I’ll keep trying.  🙂

    That last line of the poem gets me every time.  I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees. I have always read that line as the most extraordinary metaphor for sensuality, awakening, and the magic of transformation. It is always very dark and gray outside in the months preceding the cherry blossoms. When they finally arrive — as they do, unfailingly each year — I feel reborn, fresh, invigorated. The world is once again full of hope, magic, and promise again after a long, cold, damp, dark season.

  • Salt {Poetry}

    Tuesday, February 10, 2015 Poetry, Poetry Tuesday No tags Permalink

    orch

    Salt

    BY MELISSA BRODER

    How can you go swimming in another human being?

    I am swimming and asking for light.

    Once I paddled into dust and fucking

    and the horsemen and ruin

    and the poisonous hollows of a projected blue eye

    and cracked my skull on all and caught more disease

    in my already dread mind and entered the medicines

    of no human power, the forests of disappearing moans,

    which were rich in sap but lacked dissolve

    fertilized against my own swimming nature, Aleph

    I am swimming for you now and I don’t care.

    When you leave the forest you do not become the ocean

    and I have become the desert trying to swim in the ocean

    and knowing this, carrying the forest floor in a sweet wood coffin

    and the blackbrush and rocks, the yucca and cacti of receded oceans,

    which were never oceans at all or there would have been shells on the sand,

    they only looked like oceans in my thirst, I cut the old horizon

    with a sword you have given and I gut the heavens

    and bleed their light and swim in that.

  • Peaches {Poetry}

    Tuesday, February 3, 2015 Food, Good Things, Poetry, Poetry Tuesday No tags Permalink

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    “You’ve ruined peaches for me.

    I can’t eat one without thinking of your hands
    dipping into my soft flesh, mouth dripping,
    teeth skimming across skin, tongue lapping
    at the excess:

    greedy, greedy, greedy.

    I am all rush and blush at a summer picnic lunch,
    hands shaking at the farmer’s market.”

    -Trista Mateer

    I love this piece of art, Efêmero,  by Juliano Lopes. It’s almost as it’s unfinished, but the detail is striking.  Just look at the vein that runs along the biceps brachii of the subject’s right arm.  My eye is drawn to that every time I look at it.  I love coming across artwork that speaks to me.

    Today I am thinking of summer, so I chose this poem.  I’ve always loved peaches, but not that junk that comes in a car or you buy at most stores.  Fresh, juicy peaches, right off the tree.  When I was a girl, I would go peach picking with my grandparents.  Because I was the smallest and the lightest, I would shimmy up the trees and get the best peaches that no one else could reach.  As I picked, I’d stop to eat a peach that I deemed as perfect, juice running down my skinny little wrists and I savored each bite.  Pure, unadulterated bliss.  I try to keep simple joys like that in my life today.  Give me blue skies, a picnic basket (with ripe peaches and a cold bottle of Sancerre), a  blanket, and my bare feet in the grass, and I’m near to heaven.  I may even blush a little bit as I eat the peach.

     

     

  • LBD {Poetry}

    Tuesday, January 27, 2015 Poetry, Poetry Tuesday No tags Permalink

    wine1

    LBD

    The Little Black Dress
    Is best served with red wine
    To accompany the red soles
    Of the pumps below it
    As she moves through the bistro.

    The Little Black Dress
    Rarely does not flatter the wearer
    Giving its all
    To show off the legs
    Encased in black tights in the cold
    Or bare in the thick humidity
    Of the summer.

    The Little Black Dress
    Can be served
    As part of a healthy breakfast
    Or as lunch, but especially as dinner.

    But if served as dessert,
    Champagne must accompany
    The Little Black Dress
    Glasses clinking
    As it hits the floor.

    – Edward Branley

     

    Continue Reading…

  • Brush {Poetry}

    Tuesday, January 20, 2015 Poetry, Poetry Tuesday No tags Permalink

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    “Consider my body a canvas,
    your tongue a brush.
    You know how I feel about
    blank pages,
    open spaces.

    Emptiness is there for you to fill it.

    You have a lot of
    catching up
    to do.”

    -Trista Mateer

  • So Much {Poetry}

    Tuesday, January 13, 2015 Poetry, Poetry Tuesday No tags Permalink

    So much

    I hope one day
    somebody loves you
    so much

    that they see violets
    in the bags under your eyes,
    sunsets in the downward arch
    of your lips

    that they recognize you
    as something green,
    something fresh and still growing
    even if sometimes
    you are growing sideways

    that they do not waste their time
    trying to fix you.

    -Trista Mateer

     

  • Take It All Back {Poetry}

    Tuesday, January 6, 2015 Poetry, Poetry Tuesday , Permalink

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    Take it all back.
    Life is boring, except for flowers, sunshine, your perfect legs.
    A glass of cold water when you are really thirsty.
    The way bodies fit together.
    Fresh and young and sweet.
    Coffee in the morning.
    These are just moments.
    I struggle with the in-betweens.
    I just want to never stop loving like there is nothing else to do,
    because what else is there to do?

    -Pablo Neruda

  • Seattle/ Thank You {Poetry}

    Tuesday, December 30, 2014 Poetry Tuesday No tags Permalink

    It’s a two-poem Poetry Tuesday this week.

     

    “Seattle”

    We all have a “Seattle,”
    That person, who,
    When they send a card,
    Or we see an email from,
    THAT domain,
    Or THAT area code,
    We transform.

    We forget the disappointment,
    We forget the bad,
    We forget the pain.
    None of it matters,
    When we see “Seattle”
    Pop up in our
    Present-day lives.

    The transformation begins
    With a gasp,
    Either physical, mental,
    Or psychic.
    A small smile forms.
    A massive WALL OF FIRE
    Starts to roll in from the horizon
    As optimism,
    And a conscious block of
    Every Bad Thing Ever
    Stops the negativity cold.

    Common sense usually wins out
    When pondering “Seattle,”
    Not because the bad memories win,
    But because we’ve moved on,
    And really don’t want double-back.

    Yes, everyone has a “Seattle.”
    Sometimes,
    It’s in Portland.

    –Edward Branley
    image

    Continue Reading…

  • Yuletide Passing {Poetry}

    Saturday, December 27, 2014 Poetry No tags Permalink

    Yuletide Passing

    “Christmas,” as most people view it
    Is over after Boxing Day.
    The run-up to the New Year
    Has a different feel. The out of town
    Family have returned, but the kids are
    Still home.

    Some folks are already working on
    Taking down the decorations,
    Returning the household to
    Some semblance of normal.
    But, it’s not normal, not quite yet.
    The Old Year is still with us,
    Still almost a week before,
    Everyone deludes themselves into
    Thinking the clock clicking to
    January 1st will change things.

    It’s a good feeling, though, as we
    Extend our enjoyment of family and
    Close friends to the random-chance
    Meetings of others we know,
    At the Mall,
    At the coffee shop,
    And the other places we haunt.

    The disruption of regular routines
    Until after the start of the New Year
    Offers opportunities for writers,
    Artists, and lovers.
    Writers can tune out their day-to-day
    Duties, turning inward to finish that
    Chapter that’s languished since, oh,
    About the Fifteenth of December.
    Artists return to the easel, the pottery
    Wheel, or their sketchpads.

    Lovers make best use of the
    Time-between-years.
    Knowing that the spouses are
    Entertaining the kids,
    Or otherwise wrapped in their own
    Reverie-of-limbo,
    They plan trysts that could never
    Happen within the confines of
    Work schedules, kid drop-off/pick-up,
    And other complications.
    They steal a few moments,
    Make lasting memories,
    And hopefully,
    They aren’t discovered,
    So they can return to normalcy
    By Twelfth Night.

    (c) 2014 Edward J. Branley

    I was going to say that Edward is one of my favorite authors/poets, but he’s really one of my favorite people.  🙂 One day, good sir, you and I shall go #daydrinkin’.   You will see more of his prose here soon, and not just on Poetry Tuesdays, as poetry (like many things)  is too good to wait for just once a week.

  • The Story Behind Lobsters {Poetry}

    Tuesday, December 23, 2014 Poetry, Poetry Tuesday No tags Permalink

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    “The story behind lobsters
    is that they weren’t thought of as cuisine
    until the 19th century.
    Before that 
they were considered peasant food,
    and most often served in prisons.

    The story behind diamonds
    is that they were just rocks until 1938
    when there was a marketing campaign
    that forever linked them with love.

    The story about you is that you thought
    I was so much more than I was.

    The story behind art 
is that it’s never a masterpiece
    until it’s already been sold.
    Once it already belongs to someone else.

    The story behind us
    is that once you finally had me, you had
    no idea what I was worth.”

    -Clementine von Radics

  • December {Poetry}

    Tuesday, December 16, 2014 Poetry, Poetry Tuesday No tags Permalink

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    When my body had forgotten its purpose,
    When it just hung off my brainstem like whipped mule.
    When my hands only wrote.
    When my mouth only ate.
    When my ass sat, my eyes read,
    When my reflexes
 were answers to questions we all already knew.

    Remember how it was then that you slid your hand 
into me,
    a fork in the electric toaster of my body.
    Jesus, 
where did all these sparks come from?
    Where was all 
this heat?

    Remember what this mouth did last night?
    And still, this morning I answer the phone like normal,
    Still I drink an hour’s worth of strong coffee.
    And now
 I file.
    And now I send an email.

    Remember how
 my lungs filled with all that everything?
    Remember
 how my heart was an animal you released from its cage?
    Remember how we unhinged?
    Remember all the names
 our bodies called each other?
    Remember how afterwards,
the steam rose from us, like a pair of smiling ghosts?

    -Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz

  • You Are Oceanic {Poetry}

    Tuesday, December 2, 2014 Poetry, Poetry Tuesday No tags Permalink

    Klimt

    “All she wanted
 was

    to find a place to stretch her bones
.

    A place to lengthen her smiles

    and spread her hair
.

    A place where her legs could walk

    without cutting and bruising
.

    A place unchained
.

    She was born out of ocean breath.

    I reminded her;

    ‘Stop pouring so much of yourself

    into hearts that have no room for themselves.

    Do not thin yourself
.

    Be vast
.

    You do not bring the ocean to a river’”

     

    -Tapiwa Mugabe

  • She Is Gone {Poetry}

    Tuesday, November 18, 2014 Family, Poetry Tuesday No tags Permalink

    You can shed tears that she is gone
    Or you can smile because she has lived

    You can close your eyes and pray that she will come back
    Or you can open your eyes and see all that she has left

    Your heart can be empty because you can’t see her
    Or you can be full of the love that you shared

    You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday
    Or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday

    You can remember her and only that she is gone
    Or you can cherish her memory and let it live on

    You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back
    Or you can do what she would want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on.

    -David Harkins

     

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    Rest in peace, baby sister. As Forrest Gump would say, “That’s all I have to say about that”.

  • Stardust {Poetry}

    Tuesday, November 4, 2014 Poetry Tuesday No tags Permalink

    Stardust

    Everyone who terrifies you is sixty-five percent water.
    And everyone you love is made of stardust, and I know sometimes you cannot even breathe deeply, and the night sky is no home,
    and you have cried yourself to sleep enough times that you are down to your last two percent, but
    nothing is infinite,
    not even loss.
    You are made of the sea and the stars, and one day
    you are going to find yourself again.

    – Finn Butler

  • Mouthful of Forevers

    Tuesday, October 28, 2014 Poetry Tuesday No tags Permalink

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    I am not the first person you loved.
    You are not the first person I looked at
    with a mouthful of forevers. We
    have both known loss like the sharp edges
    of a knife. We have both lived with lips
    more scar tissue than skin. Our love came
    unannounced in the middle of the night.
    Our love came when we’d given up
    on asking love to come. I think
    that has to be part
    of its miracle.

    This is how we heal.
    I will kiss you like forgiveness. You
    will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms
    will bandage and we will press promises
    between us like flowers in a book.
    I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat
    on your skin. I will write novels to the scar
    of your nose. I will write a dictionary
    of all the words I have used trying
    to describe the way it feels to have finally,
    finally found you.
    And I will not be afraid
    of your scars.

    I know sometimes
    it’s still hard to let me see you
    in all your cracked perfection,
    but please know:
    whether it’s the days you burn
    more brilliant than the sun
    or the nights you collapse into my lap
    your body broken into a thousand questions,
    you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

    I will love you when you are a still day.
    I will love you when you are a hurricane.

    – Clementine Von Radics

  • This Is the Nonsense of Love {Poetry}

    Tuesday, October 21, 2014 Poetry, Poetry Tuesday No tags Permalink

    I.
    Our kiss is a secret handshake, a password.
    We love like spies, like bruised prize fighters,
    Like children building tree houses.
    Our love is serious business.
    One look from you and my spine reincarnates as kite string.

    When I hesitate to hold your hand,
    it is because to know is to be responsible for knowing.

    II.
    There is no clean way to enter
    the heavy machinery of the heart.
    Just jagged cutthroat questions.
    Just the glitter and blood production.

    III.
    The truth is this:
    My love for you is the only empire
    I will ever build.
    When it falls,
    as all empires do,
    my career in empire building will be over.
    I will retreat to an island.
    I will dabble in the vacation-hut industry.
    I will skulk about the private libraries and public parks.
    I will fold the clean clothes.
    I will wash the dishes.
    I will never again dream of having the whole world.

    ~
    Mindy Nettifee

  • Cherry Blossoms {Poetry}

    Tuesday, October 14, 2014 Photography, Poetry, Poetry Tuesday No tags Permalink

    The trees of my childhood
    are not the trees of your
    childhood.

    Let me tell you about my
    cedars; my forsythias
    and honeysuckles;
    the way I used to plant
    cherry pits in the front lawn
    because I was greedy for their
    blossoming.

    Lift up my skirt and I’ll show you
    where the blackberry brushes had
    scratched me.

    Lay me down in a hammock
    hung between your childhood and the
    man you have become today.

    And we’ll kiss once, twice,
    and a third time for luck

    beneath the cherry blossom petals
    that I had fallen asleep beneath
    when I was too young to know anything
    but innocence.

    And the dark bark will be a darker midnight
    against the spring it blossoms.

    Skeletal. Moonless.
    So heavy from the
    rain.

    And your hand will fold a flower
    behind my ear.

    The petals will be
    so extraordinarily
    pale.

    – Shinji Moon

    Blossom

  • A History of Flesh {Poetry}

    Tuesday, October 7, 2014 Love, Poetry Tuesday Permalink

    is there a name for
    the loss of a memory
    the forgetfulness of the body
    the cruelty of soft skin
    turned sharp
    and hard?
    is there a name for
    the last time somebody held
    your love in their mouth
    like a mother cat
    holding a newborn kitten
    or like a porcelain bowl
    carefully cradling fruit?

    what about the sensation of waking up
    next to the person
    you love most in the world
    the warmth of their body
    travelling from their side of the bed
    to yours
    is there a name for that?

    i could not name it all
    i could not write a dictionary to match
    the sensations of life
    of broken bones and bruised knees
    of chipped fingernails
    and scraped elbows
    of love made and love lost
    of fireplace heat and winter cold
    it would take me lifetimes
    to chronicle all of this
    and so i put these brief
    moments into paragraphs
    and sentences.

    and sometimes at night
    when i can not sleep
    when my body is still buzzing
    with all the things i can not name
    i pinch my eyes shut tight
    and try to conjure up the last time
    somebody told me;
    “your body is a story
    i would never get tired
    of telling.”
    -Esperanza Friel

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