Monthly Archives: November 2010

Oh, Newness and a bit of Stardust

First of all, a new Ways We Are Lost Post

Now, a letter which perhaps will help others (?)

Between me an another poet.

 

Dear Poet X,

I know you’re in a whirl right now, but you’re right, this too shall pass. And when so much is going on, it’s hard to “connect” to the writing. But it will come back. I’ve been the same way for months now. It’s never GONE, but sometimes we need to wait out the other stuff.

I want to make love to poetry. I love it so much. I would do anything for it. But I refuse to beat myself up about it. Poetry, I think, respects us when we respect the spirit inside of us, which is its carrier. The words are just as in need of us. But sometimes, it has to visit others, as well. It’s all one voice. I’m beginning to realize that. I’ve started to recite and memorize other work and feel through it as though it could have been gifted to me just as much as it was gifted to someone else, but it wasn’t gifted to me, but if I keep walking toward it, no matter what, there will be future gifts. Trust in that.

You do so much work already!

Yes, I agree with the academia stuff.  I just want to learn and then step away, learn and then step away. There is a time and place for community. Who knows what will happen or where I will go. I just have to think that there’s some sort of plan. Of course, my own free will, but that there’s a pattern or path and I just have to practice AWARENESS.

I know how it feels where, if the works were going well, then things would be easier to handle. But that’s a crutch isnt’ it? I have been thinking about that because I’m in the same situation. I’m being taught to withstand the nothingness again and again. And how to live, and love.

Thank you for writing. Thank you.

S

*****

and, what I listened to last night while watching the stars. I saw a shooting one! Made a wish. But I won’t tell.

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Francine, cont.

Francine steps away from things altogether. His body lets in light, she writes, and I am larger than small matters. Francine laughs into her man’s blazer. I arrange his pants, she writes. His Paradise Lost, his socks, his outline on the mattress. Sometimes I see it burning so brightly. Francine remembers how they breakfast together. Pouring out of diners. Francine sleeps on chicken bones when alone, steps away from things altogether. I am larger than his body! She writes, I will drink his honey water.

 

Francine knows the difference between wheat and the lasting. The backgarden’s overgrown, she writes. Never a shadow in the hedge. Francine learns she still loves him, in many different tongues. Francine plants rows of figs to let in light. She writes, though mercy I cannot capture. Never a shadow in the hedge. Francine listens to stars when he comes, dragging a captured bed. Francine knows the difference between difficulties and regret.

 

Francine stones honey when she’s alone, then calls Saint Gabriel. My arms were called a gate, she writes, but no one stepped through. Someday the way to mercy will be by the sea. I learn to tongue regret by being everything. No one stepped through. Francine believes her heart will drink his honey water. Figs the burning of swallowed stone. His body a light for the dead on her mattress. I love everything attached to my hair, she writes, though my heart’s stuck in his branches.

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Francine Believes Her Legs are Flutes

Francine doesn’t believe in the impossibility of everything. Francine writes letters, though she still loves him. Francine believes her heart will not swallow the stone. Francine believes he sleeps with fistfuls of her hair. Francine doesn’t believe in her eyelids or that her heart is carried within his branches. Forgive her. She writes, I’m going to borrow the sea of mercy. Francine believes in Saint Gabriel. She writes, However I comb my hair, stones fall out. The train was late. Francine believes her legs are flutes outside her window. Branches. Francine writes letters to him made of stone. She writes, Your clothes, my painting, our lamps. I’m going to cut my hair. Francine sees a sad procession in the possibility of everything, though she still loves him.



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My Ear Bled and He Created the World

Please protect me from myself. The howl is cornered as a wounded owl

outside my door and bargaining to be let in. The head of the owl

dreams of sky on fire for his wings, You see,

I hoped in a calling. In a name

to be called. Mine.

 

But of hours men build carved trees into prisons and I walk splintered into myself

each day, a stranger, to say my name to strangers. They lip themselves

into me. Once, I had a man break his neck over a stone-hedge to let

the field grow out, in circles around his temples. I walked

the new land a child, looking for myself in the burrs.

I found a woman caught in the wire, singing.

What are you singing. She said,

Holy is the Mountain.

 

Please protect me. I think

of the broken neck of the man,

fields sprouting from his eyes. He called me

over to him and beat me until my ear bled. And from there,

he said he knew his love was real. And from there he went

howling and cleaning my skin with lips, staking claim for what was his.

 

The woman in the barbs tries continually to get out. She visits me in dreams and sings Holy is the Mountain until the owl descends. Protect me.

 

She shoots him. He loves it.

He calls her mistress and the sky bed.

 

The woman in the barbs swings her wrists until they bleed.

This is how I know she loves me.

 

The man with fields sprouting from his eyes and neck on the stone-hedge wakes me

at night. He begs me to fuck him. Since all he feels is pain,

the sky leans in, then out, keeping his cock hard. I hate to tell you this,

he says, but I will never stop.

 

From the field I search for a child, walking eternity. She won’t stop singing

Holy is the Mountain.

I want to sleep until I’m dead, she says,

so I let her. I build carved trees into prisons and shadows

with backs of horses. I skinned one just last week, I said, in a dream.

Thank you, says the girl, then sleeps.

 

The man overtaken by fields was once a boy.

I know this because one day in his kitchen he showed me a painting.

I thought of you, he said, before you were born. Just then,

the owl flew by the window, warned me to keep my panties on.

 

From here, it all gets confusing, I say to the woman in the chair.

She isnt’ the woman in the barbs, but she listens.

No one else but the owl follows me all my days.

 

And holy is the mountain, says the woman in the chair, Is that your name?

 

Myself I wanted to be called, but haven’t.

My ear bled and he created a world. I asked for it. I asked for a calling.

I don’t understand why the tender-bird left, I said.

 

The woman in the chair leans back.

 

You’re safe, she said.

 

So I cried.

 

Where do you feel it? She asked.

 

My throat.

 

As though his hands never left and I’m twenty again and tired of life.

 

Who was the tender-bird?

 

The First Man, I said.

 

You loved? She said.

 

Yes, commonly known as the First Man.

But I’m Eve and the man with the field coming out of his eyes asks me to put him down every night. Protect me. The girl doesn’t know this.

 

What girl?

 

She, the perpetual child in prisons made from carved trees and shadows,

the backs of horses.

 

Perhaps you equate sex with violence.

 

The tender-bird. He is the owl, wounded, howling.

 

I don’t understand.

 

Neither do I.

 

But I am a woman, scared.

 

Holy is the Mountain.

 

Protect me from myself.

 

The eyes my fields my stones my hands

the unwavering search for the child.

I want to sleep until I die.

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Erasure Poem & new Ways We Are Post

So, last night I went to see a friend of mine sing upstate in a church band. My friend, since she was going to be up on stage the whole time, introduced me to another friend of hers, so I wouldn’t be alone in the sanctuary. Her friend was lively and chatty and so very friendly. She handed me a scrap of paper torn out of what I assume was an old romance novel.

Here, she said. While we wait, let’s make erasure poems!

So, there I found myself, sitting in a church, making poems out of trashy romance pages. It was fun. I like my life. Here’s one.

form her

go over to

the door,

silent prayer,

expected.

wait.

sudden crush–

the world,

and he so fair.

 

And now, click for a new Ways We Are Lost Blog!

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Two Poems Published on 3AM Magazine!

Oh, I love 3AM Magazine! I remember a year ago I found their site and loved it. Now, I have the honor of being published there! Please check out

Two of my Poems on 3AM Magazine’s website.

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Rilke Series Continues…with No. 42

You come and go. The doors swing closed.

Your Nothing-Heart, hermano—

I, stolen. Closed

 

Till what I fight against—

belly-want and long—

 

Become strangers who sit

On the subway, blue hurt-speak

 

God. Barbed into me, Your Eye

Turned out, twisted. Don’t You see. I

 

Who swings bells for our lonely—

 

Wildly—know the mountain. O,

body-of-doors—Don’t lie!

 

Dark, I know. Your tongue,

Her song. The Mare’s wish to die.

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