Jun
18
Labile by Michael Basinski
You believe not in words but in words in / lines
A poetry tumblr run by former roommates likeitalics and kantmonkey.
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Jun
7
“Gotham Wanes
The mask? Because we were never ugly
enough. Because our ugliness was epic.
Because we were given to it, because
we were so misgiven. You wear one. I
wear one. Yes. Kings, Pharaohs had them
fabricated, poured out in gold and beaten.
Most wore them to the grave. In Mexico
the living wear them, not to scare the dead
away, but as invitation. They leave candy
on the mounds of those they mourn. New
Orleans? Women wear them in order
to bare everything else. Men wear them
in order to watch. I can remember, back
before it all grows grim, making one
out of the news, trying to paste it together.
I remember my mother helping me. I don’t
really remember my father. Something
like a face, like the man in the moon.
I understand we’re hardwired this way,
to make faces before anything else.
It’s why we see the Madonna in mold,
alien architecture in Martian crater creep.
We keep looking for those first faces, first
familia. Every culture, every eon. Witness
the oldest we know, his cave, his wall, one
hundred seventy centuries gone. They call
him Sorcerer. They call me Knight.
We have always lived in the dark.” Gotham Wanes by Bryan D. Dietrich
The mask? Because we were never ugly
enough. Because our ugliness was epic.
Because we were given to it, because
we were so misgiven. You wear one. I
wear one. Yes. Kings, Pharaohs had them
fabricated, poured out in gold and beaten.
Most wore them to the grave. In Mexico
the living wear them, not to scare the dead
away, but as invitation. They leave candy
on the mounds of those they mourn. New
Orleans? Women wear them in order
to bare everything else. Men wear them
in order to watch. I can remember, back
before it all grows grim, making one
out of the news, trying to paste it together.
I remember my mother helping me. I don’t
really remember my father. Something
like a face, like the man in the moon.
I understand we’re hardwired this way,
to make faces before anything else.
It’s why we see the Madonna in mold,
alien architecture in Martian crater creep.
We keep looking for those first faces, first
familia. Every culture, every eon. Witness
the oldest we know, his cave, his wall, one
hundred seventy centuries gone. They call
him Sorcerer. They call me Knight.
We have always lived in the dark.” Gotham Wanes by Bryan D. Dietrich
Jun
6
“If Not for the Cat
If not for the cat,
And the scarcity of cheese,
I could be content.” If not for the cat by Jack Prelutsky
If not for the cat,
And the scarcity of cheese,
I could be content.” If not for the cat by Jack Prelutsky
Jun
4
“Sea Poppies
Amber husk
fluted with gold,
fruit on the sand
marked with a rich grain,
treasure
spilled near the shrub-pines
to bleach on the boulders:
your stalk has caught root
among wet pebbles
and drift flung by the sea
and grated shells
and split conch-shells.
Beautiful, wide-spread,
fire upon leaf,
what meadow yields
so fragrant a leaf
as your bright leaf?” Sea Poppies by H.D.
Amber husk
fluted with gold,
fruit on the sand
marked with a rich grain,
treasure
spilled near the shrub-pines
to bleach on the boulders:
your stalk has caught root
among wet pebbles
and drift flung by the sea
and grated shells
and split conch-shells.
Beautiful, wide-spread,
fire upon leaf,
what meadow yields
so fragrant a leaf
as your bright leaf?” Sea Poppies by H.D.
Jun
2
“The Survivor
Don’t tap your chopsticks against your bowl.
Don’t throw your teacup against the wall in anger.
Don’t suck on your long black braid and weep.
Don’t tarry around the big red sign that says
“danger!”
All the tempests will render still; seas will calm,
horses will retreat, voices to surrender.
That you have this way and not that,
that your skin is yellow, not white, not black,
that you were born not a boychild but a girl,
that this world will be forever puce-pink are just as well.
Remember, the survivor is not the strongest or
most clever;
merely, the survivor is almost always the youngest.
And you shall have to relinquish that title
before long.”
Don’t tap your chopsticks against your bowl.
Don’t throw your teacup against the wall in anger.
Don’t suck on your long black braid and weep.
Don’t tarry around the big red sign that says
“danger!”
All the tempests will render still; seas will calm,
horses will retreat, voices to surrender.
That you have this way and not that,
that your skin is yellow, not white, not black,
that you were born not a boychild but a girl,
that this world will be forever puce-pink are just as well.
Remember, the survivor is not the strongest or
most clever;
merely, the survivor is almost always the youngest.
And you shall have to relinquish that title
before long.”
Marilyn Chin, “The Survivor”
Original entry on washingtonpost.com
Jun
1
“Sonnet, with Two Strangers
1. Last year, my mother sent me a framed photo. This was a strange act. Perhaps there are other families that exchange snapshots. And other families who send framed photos to one another. But that is not my family. 2. This framed photo is the only one that I have ever received from my mother. 3. The only one I’ve ever received from anybody in my immediate, extended, or imaginary families. 4. In the black-and-white photo, my mother and father stand together. He holds her close. His hand touches her waist, just below her breast, in a gesture that is shockingly intimate. 5. I don’t recall ever seeing my mother and father kiss each other. She is seventy-six years old now and my father is eight years dead. 6. How old are they in this photo? Twenty-five maybe. My father has already gone to fat but my mother is thin and gorgeous. 7. Of course, I look like both of them. 8. Say hello to my father’s jowls and my mother’s eyes. 9. But this photo contains more than just my parents. There are two other Indian men. One guy looks young and rather Asian. The other is damned amazing with a cigarette hanging like a dream from his lips. I’m not a smoker, but the utter coolness of that cigarette could probably turn some other non-smoker into a two-pack-a-day fiend. 10. Soon after I received this photo, I emailed my mother and asked her about the two strangers. 11. “Who are they?” I wrote. “I don’t know,” she wrote back. “I don’t remember them at all. I just liked how your father and I look.” 12. O, in that photo, my father intimately touches my mother. My siblings and I were created by that touch. 13. Though I don’t know how much passion my parents felt for each other after I was born, I now have evidence of how much they wanted each other before I was born. 14. So I give thanks-I offer my gratitude-for my mother and father’s hands and skin.”
1. Last year, my mother sent me a framed photo. This was a strange act. Perhaps there are other families that exchange snapshots. And other families who send framed photos to one another. But that is not my family. 2. This framed photo is the only one that I have ever received from my mother. 3. The only one I’ve ever received from anybody in my immediate, extended, or imaginary families. 4. In the black-and-white photo, my mother and father stand together. He holds her close. His hand touches her waist, just below her breast, in a gesture that is shockingly intimate. 5. I don’t recall ever seeing my mother and father kiss each other. She is seventy-six years old now and my father is eight years dead. 6. How old are they in this photo? Twenty-five maybe. My father has already gone to fat but my mother is thin and gorgeous. 7. Of course, I look like both of them. 8. Say hello to my father’s jowls and my mother’s eyes. 9. But this photo contains more than just my parents. There are two other Indian men. One guy looks young and rather Asian. The other is damned amazing with a cigarette hanging like a dream from his lips. I’m not a smoker, but the utter coolness of that cigarette could probably turn some other non-smoker into a two-pack-a-day fiend. 10. Soon after I received this photo, I emailed my mother and asked her about the two strangers. 11. “Who are they?” I wrote. “I don’t know,” she wrote back. “I don’t remember them at all. I just liked how your father and I look.” 12. O, in that photo, my father intimately touches my mother. My siblings and I were created by that touch. 13. Though I don’t know how much passion my parents felt for each other after I was born, I now have evidence of how much they wanted each other before I was born. 14. So I give thanks-I offer my gratitude-for my mother and father’s hands and skin.”
Sherman Alexie - “Sonnet, with Two Strangers”
May
31
“The Sting of Religion
Everything, everything, everything has its cost.
I own a spirit animal, but it’s a wasp.”
Everything, everything, everything has its cost.
I own a spirit animal, but it’s a wasp.”
Sherman Alexie - The Sting of Religion
May
30
“[O my Lord]
O my Lord,
if I worship you
from fear of hell, burn me in hell.
If I worship you
from hope of Paradise, bar me from its gates.
But if I worship you
for yourself alone, grant me then the beauty of your Face.”
O my Lord,
if I worship you
from fear of hell, burn me in hell.
If I worship you
from hope of Paradise, bar me from its gates.
But if I worship you
for yourself alone, grant me then the beauty of your Face.”
[O my Lord]
RABI’A
TRANS. by JANE HIRSHFIELD
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