pf_mod: modern pseudo-cubist painting of a red headed woman holding a book with a red cover (Default)
[personal profile] pf_mod
Day 8:
We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You tough my knees with your blue fingers..
And when you open your mouth,
a ball of yellow light falls to the floor
and burns a hole through it.


Day 9:
Death, Bobby, hit me
like the flat of a hand.
Imagine you are made of crystal
and someone ice picks you
and you shatter,
all your cells coming
almost to despair
it is so good.


Day 10:
Now when he hears the sound of voices,
he growls, covers the bones quickly
and hides beneath the burned-out shell of a car
until they fade
like all the voices that once made us family,
but could not save us from our destiny.


Day 11:
Come on, baby, lay me down on my back.
Pretend you don't owe me a thing
and maybe we'll roll out of here,
leaving the past stacked up behind us;
old newspapers nobody's ever got to read again.


Day 12:
I enter your room,with my purple face moist from excitement.
The black straw basket I carry
in my yellow arms cracks softly,
in tune with the brittle snap of my blue legs,
as I sneak to your bed.


Day 13:
Beside the river, I stop the wagon,
loaded with the plague dead
and have a drink.
I fill my mouth and swallow slowly,
then climb back into my seat.
The old horse drops one turd, another.
Corpses, I give you these flowers.


Day 14:
I move off toward the street.
My feet press down in it,
familiar with the hot soft asphalt
that caresses them.
The sun slips down into its cradle behind the mountains
and it is hot, hotter than ever
and I like it.
pf_mod: modern pseudo-cubist painting of a red headed woman holding a book with a red cover (Default)
[personal profile] pf_mod
Day 1:
We tear ourselves down atom by atom,
til electron and positron,
we become our own transcendent annihilation.


Day 2:
A nightlight in the shape of a bear
burns in the center of my darkness.
It's clear acrylic and inside, a blue bulb
casts a pale blue light in the room,
where I lie awake,
my twelve-year-old insomnia,
a warning of future sleepless nights.


Day 3:
The wharf has a tight deep vagina of water
and I'm going to fuck it until it novas,
just to let everybody see
how I cut through life like a diamond
in a sack of glass, with no regrets


Day 4:
I'm burning from the bottom up,
a bottle of flesh,
kicked across the hardwood years.
I pass gin and excuses from hand to mouth,
but it's me. It's me.
I'm the one dirty habit
I just can't break.


Day 5:
Dawn had come to the village
with more killing on its mind.
I heard screams and pleas for mercy,
then I realized those sounds were inside me.
They would never leave.
Now I am always talking to the dead.


Day 6:
I always say
it aint a shame;
it's crime
and thank God somebody elese
is paying.
This time.


Day 7:
If I'm anywhere, I'm still trapped
in the palace of lies,
where I'm clothed in illusion
and fed confusion with a spoon.
pf_mod: modern pseudo-cubist painting of a red headed woman holding a book with a red cover (Default)
[personal profile] pf_mod
Day 22:
i wanted to take
your hand and run with you
together toward
ourseves down the street to your street
i wanted to laugh aloud
and skip the notes past
the marquee advertising "women
in love"


Day 23:
or maybe you look into a face you've never seen
or never noticed and you know
the ugly awful loneliness of being
locked into a mind and body that belong
to a name or non-name—not that it matters


Day 24:
and if ever i touched a life i hope that life knows
that i know that touching was and still is and will always
be the true
revolution


Day 25:
if i am imprisoned in my skin let it be a dark world
with a deep bass walking a witch doctor to me for spiritual
consultation
let my world be defined by my skin and the skin of my
people
for we spirit to spirit will embrace
this world


Day 26:
I watched his black skin turn foaming
white and wanted to see this magnificent
man stand naked and clean before me
but they called me to the dungeons where above
the christian church an african stood listening
for sounds of revolt


Day 27:
thinning hair
estee laudered
deliberate sentences
chubby hands
glasses resting atop ample softness
dresses too long
beaded down
elbow length gloves funny hats
ready smiles
diamond rings
hopeful questions
needing to be needed
my ladies over fifty
who birthed and nursed
my Blackness


Day 28:
i only want to
be there to kiss you
as you want to be kissed
where i want to kiss you
cause it's my house
and i plan to live in it


Day 29:
like my mother and her grandmother before
i paddle around the house
in soft-soled shoes
chasing ghosts from corners
with incense
they are such a disturbance my ghosts
they break my bric-a-brac and make
me forget to turn my heating stove


Day 30:
she sits each sunday black
dress falling below her knees which have drifted
apart defining a void
in the temple of her life in the church of her god
strong and staunch and hopeful
that we never change
places


Day 31:
i hope my shoulder finds a head that needs nestling
and my feet find a footstool after a good soaking
with epsom salts

i hope i die
warmed
by the life that i tried
to live
pf_mod: modern pseudo-cubist painting of a red headed woman holding a book with a red cover (Default)
[personal profile] pf_mod
Day 15:
i always liked house cleaning
even as a child
i dug straigtening
the cabinets
putting new paper on
the shelves
washing the refrigerator
inside out
and unfortunately this habit has
carried over and i find
i must remove you
from my life


Day 16:
wedding rituals have always intrigued me
and i'd swear to friends i wouldn't say goddamn not even
once no matter what neither would i give a power
sign but would even comb my hair severely
back and put that blue shit under my eyes
i swear i wanted to be in a wedding


Day 17:
she realized
she wasn't one
of life's winners
when she wasn't sure
life to her was some dark
dirty secret that
like some unwanted child
too late for an abortion
was to be borne
alone


Day 18:
i need i swear to loll
about the sun
and have it smelt me
the ionosphere carrying
my ashes all
the way over
to your pillow
i want you


Day 19:
and it was cold
on the elevator that morning
when i spoke to her and foolishly asked
how are you
she smiled and tilted her head
at least, i said, the sun is
shining
and her eyes smiled


Day 20:
ever want to crawl
in someone's arms
white out the world
in someone's arms
it's so hot in hell
if i don't sweat
i'll melt


Day 21:
the last time i was home
to see my mother we kissed
exchanged pleasantries
and unpleasantries pulled a warm
comfotting silence around
us and read separate books
pf_mod: modern pseudo-cubist painting of a red headed woman holding a book with a red cover (Default)
[personal profile] pf_mod
Day 8:
The genesis was life
The genesis was death
In the genesis of death
Was the genesis of war
be still peace be still


Day 9:
i seize on little things
you can tell a lot about people
by the way they comb their hair
or the way they don't look
you in the eye


Day 10:
her eyes were two bright shiny six guns
already cocked
prepared to go off at a moment's indiscretion
had she been a vietnam soldier or a mercenary
for Ian Smith all the children and dogs and goodly
portions of grand old trees would have been demolished


Day 11:
i usta wonder who i'd be
when i was a little girl indianapolis
sitting on doctors' porches with post-dawn pre-debs
(wondering would my aunt drag me to church sunday)
i was meaningless
and i wondered if life
would give me a chance to mean


Day 12:
walking down park
amsterdam
or columbus do you ever stop
to think what it looked like
before it was an avenue
did you ever stop to think
what you walked
before you rode
subways to the stock
exchange (we can't be on
the stock exchange
we are the stock
exchanged)


Day 13:
then my neighbor
who thinks i hate
asked--do you ever write
tree poems--i like trees
so i thought
i'll write a beautiful green tree poem
peeked from my window
to check the image
noticed the school yard was covered
with asphalt
no green--no trees grow
in manhattan


Day 14:
they put us in a cell
to make us behave
never realizing it's from cells
we have escaped
and we will be born
from their iron cells
new people with a new cry
pf_mod: modern pseudo-cubist painting of a red headed woman holding a book with a red cover (Default)
[personal profile] pf_mod
Day 1:
It stormed and there was no leaf to cover me
I was water-logged (having absorbed all that I could)
I dreamed I was drowning
That no sun from Venice would dry my tears
But a silly green cricket with a pink umbrella said
Hello Tell me about it
And we talked our way through the storm


Day 2:
i am a teller of tales
a dreamer of dreams
shall i spin a poem around you
human beings grope to strangers
to share a smile
complain to lovers of their woes
and never touch


Day 3:
but there was a certain peace
when you walked out the door
and i knew you would do something
you wanted to do
and i could run
a tub full of water
without answering the phone
for your call


Day 4:
those things
which you so laughingly call
hands are in fact two
brown butterflies fluttering
across the pleasure
they give
my body


Day 5:
it's a little off center
this life we're leading
maybe i shouldn't feel sorry for myself
but the more i understand women
the more i do


Day 6:
i shall save a special poem
for you to say
you always made me smile
and even though i cried sometimes
you said i will not let you
down


Day 7:
as things be/come
let's destroy
what we be/come
let's build
what we become
when we dream
pf_mod: modern pseudo-cubist painting of a red headed woman holding a book with a red cover (Default)
[personal profile] pf_mod
Hello, everyone! It seems that we got off to a rocky start this year, so I'll be asking soon about how we can make this a better and more accessible challenge.

2013 Master list:

[personal profile] lunesqueRankor Island Has Issues; Violent Messiahs; G

Amnesty started on March 1, so if you have anything you'd like to contribute for your prompt in this last round, or any of the prompts from the Yehuda Amichai July prompts, we'd love to see it!
pf_mod: modern pseudo-cubist painting of a red headed woman holding a book with a red cover (Default)
[personal profile] pf_mod
Day 22:
But peace returns to my heart.
Not peace as it used to be
before it left me years ago. It went away to school,
matured as I did,
and came back looking like me.


Day 23:
I'm an expert on the botany of good and evil,
I'm still studying it, I'll go on studying till the day I die.
I stood near the school building and looked in. This is the room
where we sat and learned. The windows of a classroom always open
to the future, but in our innocence we thought it was only landscape
we were seeing from the window.


Day 24:
In the morning it was still night and the lights were on
when we rose from happiness like people
who rise from the dead,
and like them in an instant each of us remembered
a former life. That's why we separated.


Day 25:
During the day we used to shout, Forgive us,
and in the evening, Open the gate to us.
But I say, Forget us, forgo us, leave us alone
when the gate closes and the day is gone.


Day 26:
I want to stand once again as I did
holding my first love all night long in the doorway.
When we left at dawn, the house
began to fall apart and since then the city and since then
the whole world.


Day 27:
And now, after thirty-two times,
I am still a parable
with no chance to become its meaning.
And I stand without camouflage before the enemy's eyes,
with outdated maps in my hand,
in the resistance that is a gathering strength and between towers,
and alone, without recommendations
in a vast desert.


Day 28:
i know a man
who photographed the view he saw
from the window of the room where he made love
and not the face of the woman he loved there.


Day 29:
Goodbye all of you, the living and the dead together.
Even a flag at half-mast flutters happily enough
when the wind blows. even longing is a bunch of sweet grapes
from which wine is pressed for feast and celebration.

And you, my few friends, go now, each of you,
go lead your flocks of memories
to pastures
where there is no remembrance.


Day 30:
When I have a headache, laughter
bursts out in the wrong place in my body.
And when I cry, they're putting my father in the ground
in a grave that's too big for him, and he won't
grow to fit it.


Day 31:
A woman beside me said: "Aren't they
beautiful!" and was startled by her words and by me.
Then she walked away into her life,
which is also half a setting out
and half a returning.
pf_mod: modern pseudo-cubist painting of a red headed woman holding a book with a red cover (Default)
[personal profile] pf_mod
Day 15:
Beautiful is the world that wakes up early for evil,
beautiful is the world that falls asleep to sin and mercy,
in the profanity of our being together, you and I.
Beautiful is the world.


Day 16:
Let's compose sweet eulogies for each other
as we lie together in the dark. Tears
remain longer than whatever caused them.
My eyes have burned this newspaper to a mist
but the wheat goes on growing in Pharoah's dream.
Time isn't inside the clock
but love, sometimes, is inside our bodies.


Day 17:
A woman asked me last night on the dark street
how another woman was
who'd already died. Before her time—and not
in anyone else's time, either.
Out of a great weariness, I anwered,
"She's fine, she's fine."


Day 18:
And with the wisdom of war, they told me to carry
my first-aid bandage over my heart,
the foolish heart that still loved her
and the wise heart that would forget.


Day 19:
All evening we spoke about the armor of perfume
that will be pierced by pain, the security
candy provides, about brown
chocolate insulation,
about old disappointments that become
the hope of the young
like clothes that went out of fashion
and now are worn again.


Day 20:
And in his eyes he took the nameless dead,
he stored them, so that someday I might know and love them in his glance—so that I would

not die in horror, as they had all done....
He filled his eyes with them, and yet in vain:
to all my wars, unwilling, I must go.


Day 21:
I used to think it could be solved this way:
like people gathering in the station at midnight
for the last bus that will not come,
at first just a few, then more and more.
That was a chance to be close to one another,
to change everything, together
to start a new world
pf_mod: modern pseudo-cubist painting of a red headed woman holding a book with a red cover (Default)
[personal profile] pf_mod
Day 8:
Memorial day for the war dead. Add now
the grief of all your losses to their grief,
even of a woman that has left you. Mix
sorrow with sorrow, like time-saving history,
which stacks holiday and sacrifice and mourning
on one day for easy, convenient memory.




Day 9:
Try to remember some details. For they have no face
and their soul is hidden and their crying
is the same as their laughter,
and their silence and their shouting rise to one height
and their body temperature is between 98 and 104 degrees
and they have no life outside this narrow space
and they have no graven image, no likeness, no memory
and they have paper cups on the day of their rejoicing
and paper cups that are used once only


Day 10:
And as we stray further from love
we multiply the words,
words and sentences so long and orderly.
Had we remained together
we could have become a silence.


Day 11:
A precise woman with a short haircut brings order
to my thoughts and my dresser drawers,
moves feelings around like furniture
into a new arrangement.
A woman whose body is cinched at the waist and firmly divided
into upper and lower,
with weather-forecast eyes
of shatterproof glass.


Day 12:
Once I sat on the steps by agate at David's Tower,
I placed my two heavy baskets at my side. A group of tourists
was standing around their guide and I became their target marker. "You see
that man with the baskets? Just right of his head there's an arch
from the Roman period. Just right of his head." "But he's moving, he's moving!"
I said to myself: redemption will come only if their guide tells them,
"You see that arch from the Roman period? It's not important: but next to it,
left and down a bit, there sits a man who's bought fruit and vegetables for his family."


Day 13:
Pinned to the paper like a butterfly.
How is it your identity's still breathing
between the pages? Your mouth was set to cry
till you found out that tears spoil everything.




Day 14:
The driver asked. We answered, All the way.
His shoulders said, If that's what you want, okay.
We paid a distant look, a close hello.
Our lives were stamped To the last stop: one way.
pf_mod: modern pseudo-cubist painting of a red headed woman holding a book with a red cover (Default)
[personal profile] pf_mod
Day 1:
A pity. We were such a good
And loving invention.
An aeroplane made from a man and wife.
Wings and everything.
We hovered a little above the earth.

We even flew a little.



Day 2:
God-Full-of-Mercy, the prayer for the dead.
If God was not full of mercy,
Mercy would have been in the world,
Not just in Him.
I, who plucked flowers in the hills
And looked down into all the valleys,
I, who brought corpses down from the hills,
Can tell you that the world is empty of mercy.



Day 3:
Please throw little stones,
Throw snail fossils, throw gravel,
Justice or injustice from the quarries of Migdal Tsedek,
Throw soft stones, throw sweet clods,
Throw limestone, throw clay,
Throw sand of the seashore,
Throw dust of the desert, throw rust,
Throw soil, throw wind,
Throw air, throw nothing
Until your hands are weary
And the war is weary
And even peace will be weary and will be.


Day 4:
Just as a magician takes towers and rabbits
out of his hat, he drew love from his small body,

and the rivers of his hands
overflowed with good deeds.


Day 5:
I
Within me
My heart
Within my heart
A museum
Within a museum
A synagogue
Within it
I




Day 6:
One is always standing at the window.
Hair dark above his thoughts.
Behind him, the words, wandering, without luggage,
Hearts without provision, prophecies without water
Big stones put there
Standing, closed like letters
With no addresses; and no one to receive them.


Day 7:
Once a great love cut my life in two.
The first part goes on twisting
at some other place like a snake cut in two.

The passing years have calmed me
and brought healing to my heart and rest to my eyes.

July 2016

S M T W T F S
      1 2
3 4 5 6 7 89
10 11 1213 141516
17181920212223
24252627282930
31      

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Aug. 19th, 2017 09:21 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios