May
25
Portrait of Gertrude Stein, by Pablo Picasso
You believe not in words but in words in / lines
A poetry tumblr run by former roommates likeitalics and kantmonkey.
- faq /
- Ask us anything /
- RSS /
- Archive
May
24
“A Carafe, that is a Blind Glass
A kind in glass and a cousin, a spectacle and nothing strange a single hurt color and an arrangement in a system to pointing. All this and not ordinary, not unordered in not resembling. The difference is spreading.” “A Carafe, that is a Blind Glass” by Gertrude Stein
A kind in glass and a cousin, a spectacle and nothing strange a single hurt color and an arrangement in a system to pointing. All this and not ordinary, not unordered in not resembling. The difference is spreading.” “A Carafe, that is a Blind Glass” by Gertrude Stein
May
23
“Carrie Leigh’s Hugh Hefner Haikus
Hef brings me flowers
tiger lilies, ochre veined
downcast, sleek black cups
small shadows, are the
puckers in his pyjamas
where his skin caves in
tired profligate, I
sigh and pour the oil along
your circular sheets
thinking of all the
times, or women on this bed
glossy old bunnies
I imagine their
breasts, plate of fried eggs, a row
of tonsured monks’ heads
his tongue slithers, gaunt
voluptuary, ugly
old man, my eyes close
when I roll his name
Ner. along my tongue, like the
line of cold test tubes
thin bottled semen,
he wants to plant it, deeply
in my flat belly
Hugh junior, and, or
Carietta, a child is
packed in dry blue ice
in silk pyjamas
they have an emperor’s crest
it is dark in there
but it’s cold as
the green jacuzzi, bubbles
are clouds on its face
I will crush the glass
with the fingers in his back
and pile on my rings
and all the fur coats
and move down the circular
stairs, bloated with gold
the flowers are a
venus-flytrap, with red curls
flames and noxious breath
his betrayal gives
me granite fists, girls scatter
movie stars crumple
as I run away,
from the gaudy prison cell,
of tinsel and skin
I’ll sue him and write
and build a home, in the
desert, on the sun
a sequined empress,
a mirage—in loungewear and
harlequin glasses” “Carrie Leigh’s Hugh Hefner Haikus” by Lynn Crosbie
Hef brings me flowers
tiger lilies, ochre veined
downcast, sleek black cups
small shadows, are the
puckers in his pyjamas
where his skin caves in
tired profligate, I
sigh and pour the oil along
your circular sheets
thinking of all the
times, or women on this bed
glossy old bunnies
I imagine their
breasts, plate of fried eggs, a row
of tonsured monks’ heads
his tongue slithers, gaunt
voluptuary, ugly
old man, my eyes close
when I roll his name
Ner. along my tongue, like the
line of cold test tubes
thin bottled semen,
he wants to plant it, deeply
in my flat belly
Hugh junior, and, or
Carietta, a child is
packed in dry blue ice
in silk pyjamas
they have an emperor’s crest
it is dark in there
but it’s cold as
the green jacuzzi, bubbles
are clouds on its face
I will crush the glass
with the fingers in his back
and pile on my rings
and all the fur coats
and move down the circular
stairs, bloated with gold
the flowers are a
venus-flytrap, with red curls
flames and noxious breath
his betrayal gives
me granite fists, girls scatter
movie stars crumple
as I run away,
from the gaudy prison cell,
of tinsel and skin
I’ll sue him and write
and build a home, in the
desert, on the sun
a sequined empress,
a mirage—in loungewear and
harlequin glasses” “Carrie Leigh’s Hugh Hefner Haikus” by Lynn Crosbie
May
22
“A poem begins with a lump in the throat.”
Robert Frost
May
21
“Kohelet (Ecclesiastes) 3:1-8
To every thing there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven;
A time to be born, and a time to die;
A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
A time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to seek, and a time to lose;
A time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
A time of war, and a time of peace.” from the Torah/Bible/Old Testament
To every thing there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven;
A time to be born, and a time to die;
A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal;
A time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
A time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to seek, and a time to lose;
A time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew;
A time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate;
A time of war, and a time of peace.” from the Torah/Bible/Old Testament
May
20
“haiku
Don’t worry, spiders,
I keep house
casually.” haiku by Issa, translated by Robert Hass
Don’t worry, spiders,
I keep house
casually.” haiku by Issa, translated by Robert Hass
May
17
“I Don’t Miss It
But sometimes I forget where I am,
Imagine myself inside that life again.
Recalcitrant mornings. Sun perhaps,
Or more likely colorless light
Filtering its way through shapeless cloud.
And when I begin to believe I haven’t left,
The rest comes back. Our couch. My smoke
Climbing the walls while the hours fall.
Straining against the noise of traffic, music,
Anything alive, to catch your key in the door.
And that scamper of feeling in my chest,
As if the day, the night, wherever it is
I am by then, has been only a whir
Of something other than waiting.
We hear so much about what love feels like.
Right now, today, with the rain outside,
And leaves that want as much as I do to believe
In May, in seasons that come when called,
It’s impossible not to want
To walk into the next room and let you
Run your hands down the sides of my legs,
Knowing perfectly well what they know.” “I Don’t Miss It” by Tracy K. Smith
But sometimes I forget where I am,
Imagine myself inside that life again.
Recalcitrant mornings. Sun perhaps,
Or more likely colorless light
Filtering its way through shapeless cloud.
And when I begin to believe I haven’t left,
The rest comes back. Our couch. My smoke
Climbing the walls while the hours fall.
Straining against the noise of traffic, music,
Anything alive, to catch your key in the door.
And that scamper of feeling in my chest,
As if the day, the night, wherever it is
I am by then, has been only a whir
Of something other than waiting.
We hear so much about what love feels like.
Right now, today, with the rain outside,
And leaves that want as much as I do to believe
In May, in seasons that come when called,
It’s impossible not to want
To walk into the next room and let you
Run your hands down the sides of my legs,
Knowing perfectly well what they know.” “I Don’t Miss It” by Tracy K. Smith
May
16
“Song
Bells on our eyelashes
and the death throes of words,
and I among fields of speech,
a knight on a horse made of dirt.
My lungs are my poetry, my eyes a book,
and I, under the skin of words,
on the beaming banks of foam,
a poet who sang and died
leaving this singed elegy
before the faces of poets,
for birds at the edge of sky.” Adonis, translated by Khaled Mattawa, “Song”
Bells on our eyelashes
and the death throes of words,
and I among fields of speech,
a knight on a horse made of dirt.
My lungs are my poetry, my eyes a book,
and I, under the skin of words,
on the beaming banks of foam,
a poet who sang and died
leaving this singed elegy
before the faces of poets,
for birds at the edge of sky.” Adonis, translated by Khaled Mattawa, “Song”
May
15
“I went downtown and went down
on the We Buy Gold guy. I have a thing
for debauched hucksters in ape costumes.
Before that I loved the girl who holds the sign
outside Little Caesar’s advertising the 2
for 1 pizza deal. Tragic life and long tresses.
She was ghostly, the way she beckoned
to oncoming traffic. Then, the birthday
clown. Nothing worse than jamming
a rubber nose over your nose for a paycheck.
Myself, I’ve been a fetish shop cashier, a fudge
worker in Vacationland, played Spidora
in the haunted house, my head sticking out
of the poison gland of a tarantula suit. Wrote
dime store romances. Was paid a dollar, once,
for a pornographic haiku. Waxed the big
slide, Windexed the jukebox glass, supervised
the shooting gallery. Toilet worker at the sugar
factory, which once involved scooping
a wedding ring out of the loo. The best
was cleaning splooge off the walls in the peep
show gallery and laundering Trixie’s thong.
Some of us claw our way to the bottom,
transcend downward. There at the hub
of the drain, we swirl. Drowned crows,
spewing profundities.” Diane Seuss, “I went downtown and down”
on the We Buy Gold guy. I have a thing
for debauched hucksters in ape costumes.
Before that I loved the girl who holds the sign
outside Little Caesar’s advertising the 2
for 1 pizza deal. Tragic life and long tresses.
She was ghostly, the way she beckoned
to oncoming traffic. Then, the birthday
clown. Nothing worse than jamming
a rubber nose over your nose for a paycheck.
Myself, I’ve been a fetish shop cashier, a fudge
worker in Vacationland, played Spidora
in the haunted house, my head sticking out
of the poison gland of a tarantula suit. Wrote
dime store romances. Was paid a dollar, once,
for a pornographic haiku. Waxed the big
slide, Windexed the jukebox glass, supervised
the shooting gallery. Toilet worker at the sugar
factory, which once involved scooping
a wedding ring out of the loo. The best
was cleaning splooge off the walls in the peep
show gallery and laundering Trixie’s thong.
Some of us claw our way to the bottom,
transcend downward. There at the hub
of the drain, we swirl. Drowned crows,
spewing profundities.” Diane Seuss, “I went downtown and down”
← Older posts
Page 1 of 31
