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The Unlucky Apple

Sun, 15 Aug 2010 13:09 +0200

'Twas the apple that in Eden
Caused our father's primal fall;
And the Trojan War, remember --
'Twas an apple caused it all.
So for weeks I've hesitated,
You can guess the reason why,
For I want to tell my darling
She's the apple of my eye.

Paul Laurence Dunbar

Bus Stop

Sun, 08 Aug 2010 08:38 +0200

Lights are burning
In quiet rooms
Where lives go on
Resembling ours.

The quiet lives
That follow us—
These lives we lead
But do not own—

Stand in the rain
So quietly
When we are gone,
So quietly . . .
And the last bus
Comes letting dark
Umbrellas out—
Black flowers, black flowers.

And lives go on.
And lives go on
Like sudden lights
At street corners

Or like the lights
In quiet rooms
Left on for hours,
Burning, burning.

Donald Justice

a collaboration with Julien Marie

The Raven Days

Sun, 01 Aug 2010 21:12 +0200

Our hearths are gone out and our hearts are broken,
And but the ghosts of homes to us remain,
And ghastly eyes and hollow sighs give token
From friend to friend of an unspoken pain.

O Raven days, dark Raven days of sorrow,
Bring to us in your whetted ivory beaks
Some sign out of the far land of To-morrow,
Some strip of sea-green dawn, some orange streaks.

Ye float in dusky files, forever croaking.
Ye chill our manhood with your dreary shade.
Dumb in the dark, not even God invoking,
We lie in chains, too weak to be afraid.

O Raven days, dark Raven days of sorrow,
Will ever any warm light come again?
Will ever the lit mountains of To-morrow
Begin to gleam athwart the mournful plain?

Sidney Lanier

Cut Grass

Sat, 31 Jul 2010 20:37 +0200

Cut grass lies frail:
Brief is the breath
Mown stalks exhale.
Long, long the death

It dies in the white hours
Of young-leafed June
With chestnut flowers,
With hedges snowlike strewn,

White lilac bowed,
Lost lanes of Queen Anne's lace,
And that high-builded cloud
Moving at summer's pace.

Philip Larkin

a light Out

Tue, 27 Jul 2010 06:48 +0200

a light Out)
& first of all foam

-like hair spatters creasing pillow
next everywhere hidinglyseek
no o god dear wait sh please o no O
3rd Findingest whispers understand
sobs bigly climb what(love being some-
thing possibly more intricate)i(breath
in breath)have nicknamed ecstasy and And

spills smile cheaply thick

--who therefor Thee(once and once only,Queen
among centuries universes between
Who out of deeplyness rose to undeath)

salute. and having worshipped for my doom
pass ignorantly into sleep's bright land

e.e.cummings

In the Name of

Wed, 21 Jul 2010 20:43 +0200

(Au nom du front parfait profond) — Eluard

An imperfect love
Inside the soul of each eye
A shameful life

A mute chest without voice
Lips without laughing substance
Starving senses

An alley night surrounding window
A seated person forgetting time
Emotions demanding an exit

A free barren hand
Flowers declining youthful hair
Measured breaths

The survival of one person
The survival of many people
Innocent people

In the name of
Love freedom man
I have the right to call forth

Those who have died to show up
Those still alive to raise their hands

Thanh Tam Tuyen

The Strange Deceiver(Le Femme Fatale) by PostModern Escape Artist

Decentralization of Easement

Tue, 20 Jul 2010 19:09 +0200

Maybe she's as lonely as the rest of us, not comfortable with failure. I step into your voice, its outfit. I watch you wear your voice as an outfit. You could say I cultivated a face. In your. Make-up. I've packed up all the weather. The men having babies in their paintings. Babies history arrests outside of my museum, which is her museum. I sing into its building, unharvested with echo. Tone on sleeve. She's as lonely as the rest of us, she says. And wears it, disdainfully. I put my cheek on the frame to cool my eyes. You say you’re writing this one as a woman comfortable with failure. I am breathing this one as a failure comforting her. She writes this uncomfortable movement. This one has a body to zip up. This one is a reel around the baby. A bird's wingspan in a museum, its echo on my tear.

Sara Mumolo

Love, etc.

Tue, 20 Jul 2010 07:44 +0200

Instantaneu

Mon, 19 Jul 2010 10:04 +0200

Imi plac fotografiile - la ceasul
cînd se preschimbă-n tigri: fiecare
își ține-n gură halca ei de timp.
Noi înotăm - în ochii lor: zîmbind,
mai facem gesturi mari și luminoase
sub cerul înflorit...
Dar dedesubt,
însîngerată, apa fără umbră
ne-a și vărsat într-o bulboană sumbră.

Ștefan Aug. Doinaș

Pull A String, A Puppet Moves

Thu, 15 Jul 2010 22:43 +0200

each man must realize
that it can all disappear very
quickly:
the cat, the woman, the job,
the front tire,
the bed, the walls, the
room; all our necessities
including love,
rest on foundations of sand -
and any given cause,
no matter how unrelated:
the death of a boy in Hong Kong
or a blizzard in Omaha ...
can serve as your undoing.
all your chinaware crashing to the
kitchen floor, your girl will enter
and you'll be standing, drunk,
in the center of it and she'll ask:
my god, what's the matter?
and you'll answer: I don't know,
I don't know ...

Charles Bukowski