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Pages: Poetry Saturday [1]
Author Topic: Poetry Saturday
methot

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2011-02-08 15-12-09

Poetry Saturday Love Poem for a Non-Believer (Sandra Cisneros) Because I miss you I run my hand along the flat of my thigh curve of the hip mango of the ass Imagine it your hand across the thrum of ribs arpeggio of breasts collarbones you adore that I don't My neck is thin you could cup it with hand Yank the life from me if you wanted I've cut my hair You can't tug it with hand A jet of black through the fingers now Your hands cool along the jaw skin of the eyelids nape of the neck soft as a mouth And when we open like apple split each other in half and have seen the heart of the heart of the heart that part you don't I don't show anyone the part we want to reel back as soon as it is suddenly unreeled like silk 62479 or the prayer of a Mohammed we won't have a word for this except perhaps religion
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olivares

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2011-02-09 5-05-39-

Like a Prisoner of Soft Words We walk under the wires and the birds resettle. We know where we’re going but have not made up our mind which way we will take to get there. If we pass by the palmist’s she can read our wayward lines. We may drop things along the way that substantiate our having been here. We will not be able to transmit any of these feelings verbatim. By the time we reach the restaurant of us is angry. Here a door gives in to a courtyard overlooking a ruined pool. We suspect someone has followed or the other of us. We touch the spot on our shirt where the ink has seeped. The lonely outline of the host is discerned near an unlit sconce. As guests we are authorized not to notice. We drop some cash on the tablecloth. We lack verisimilitude but we press on with intense resolve. At the border, under a rim of rock, the footbridge. Salt cedars have grown over the path. The water table is down. And we cannot see who is coming, the pollos and their pollero, the migra, the mules, the Minutemen, the women who wash for the other women al otro lado. Or the murdered boy herding his goats after school. 6:27, the fell of dark, not day. --C. D. Wright
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wafford

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2011-02-10 1-58-43-

somewhere i have never travelled... somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously) her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the color of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain, has such small hands - e.e. cummings
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gottschalk

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2011-02-10 9-29-52-

I love lesbians Butch, femme, boi, I love them all Dykes make me happy an original by dogdogdog
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  • badal

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    2011-02-10 12-54-34

    Memoirs of a Mad Cook Memoirs of a Mad Cook by: Gwendolyn MacEwen There's no point kidding myself any longer, I just can't get the knack of it ; I suspect there's a secret society which meets in dark cafeterias to pass on the art from member to another. Besides, It's so personal preparing food for someone's insides, what can I possibly know about someone's insides, how can I presume to invade your blood? I'll try, God knows I'll try but if anyone watches me I'll scream because maybe I'm handling a tomato wrong, how can I know if I'm handling a tomato wrong? something is eating away at me with splendid teeth Wistfully I stand in my difficult kitchen and imagine the fantastic salads and soufflés that will never be. Everyone seems to grow thin with me and their eyes grow black as hunters' eyes and search my face for sustenance. All my friends are dying of hunger, there is some basic dish I cannot offer, and you my love are almost as lean as the splendid wolf I must keep always at my door.
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    margeson

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    2011-02-10 14-34-56

    Hard Rain After I heard It's a Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall played softly by an accordion quartet through the ceiling speakers at the Springdale Shopping Mall, I understood there's nothing we can't pluck the stinger from, nothing we can't turn into a soft drink flavor or a t-shirt. Even serenity can become something horrible if you make a commercial about it using smiling, white-haired people quoting Thoreau to sell retirement homes in the Everglades, where the swamp has been drained and bulldozed into a nineteen-hole golf course with electrified alligator barriers. You can't keep beating yourself up, Billy I heard the therapist say on television to the teenage murderer, About all those people you killed— You just have to be the best person you can be, day at a time— and everybody in the audience claps and weeps a little, because the level of deep feeling has been touched, and they want to believe that the power of Forgiveness is greater than the power of Consequence, or History. Dear Abby: My father is a businessman who travels. Each time he returns from of his trips, his shoes and trousers are covered with blood- but he never forgets to bring me a nice present; Should I say something? Signed, America. I used to think I was not part of this, that I could mind my own business and get along, but that was just another song that had been taught to me since birth— whose words I was humming under my breath, as I was walking through the Springdale Mall. Tony Hoagland
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    Mariana

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    2011-02-11 1-42-27-

    Like Water on a Stone (Alejandra Pizarnik) on whoever returns in search of his ancient searching the night closes in like water on a stone like air on a bird like bodies closing in on love (1968, translated from Spanish)
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    Sunshine

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    2011-02-11 15-41-36

    Crematorium I have in my soul a liquid fire the combusting submission of a sore chamber maid the sparking fury of an unpaid wench and the imprisoned, unconscious resentment of the virgin sleeping beauty i have in me a living crematorium to consume, purify, distill life in homogenous dust, a vivid blaze to lick up your body, to whisper my love in smothering billows i will bring tears to your eyes, the breath from your body intense sensation, deja vu, epiphany and devastation i can see the twisted flesh, the brands, the ownership: the marks of my kisses you would disintegrate, levitate, float on the wind or out to sea as snow flake ashes of past intentions.
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