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Post by LonelyForsaken on Jul 19, 2014 22:04:55 GMT -5
45 Mercy Street
In my dream, drilling into the marrow of my entire bone, my real dream, I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill searching for a street sign - namely MERCY STREET. Not there.
I try the Back Bay. Not there. Not there. And yet I know the number. 45 Mercy Street. I know the stained-glass window of the foyer, the three flights of the house with its parquet floors. I know the furniture and mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, the servants. I know the cupboard of Spode the boat of ice, solid silver, where the butter sits in neat squares like strange giant's teeth on the big mahogany table. I know it well. Not there.
Where did you go? 45 Mercy Street, with great-grandmother kneeling in her whale-bone corset and praying gently but fiercely to the wash basin, at five A.M. at noon dozing in her wiggy rocker, grandfather taking a nap in the pantry, grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid, and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower on her forehead to cover the curl of when she was good and when she was... And where she was begat and in a generation the third she will beget, me, with the stranger's seed blooming into the flower called Horrid.
I walk in a yellow dress and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes, enough pills, my wallet, my keys, and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five? I walk. I walk. I hold matches at street signs for it is dark, as dark as the leathery dead and I have lost my green Ford, my house in the suburbs, two little kids sucked up like pollen by the bee in me and a husband who has wiped off his eyes in order not to see my inside out and I am walking and looking and this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime.
Pull the shades down - I don't care! Bolt the door, mercy, erase the number, rip down the street sign, what can it matter, what can it matter to this cheapskate who wants to own the past that went out on a dead ship and left me only with paper?
Not there.
I open my pocketbook, as women do, and fish swim back and forth between the dollars and the lipstick. I pick them out, one by one and throw them at the street signs, and shoot my pocketbook into the Charles River. Next I pull the dream off and slam into the cement wall of the clumsy calendar I live in, my life, and its hauled up notebooks.
~Anne Sexton
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Post by Bastet on Jul 20, 2014 13:38:06 GMT -5
clouds seen through clouds seen through - Haiku by Jim Kacian
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Post by Bastet on Jul 20, 2014 13:53:08 GMT -5
Suicide Note
'You speak to me of narcissism but I reply that it is a matter of my life' - Artaud
'At this time let me somehow bequeath all the leftovers to my daughters and their daughters' - Anonymous
Better, despite the worms talking to the mare’s hoof in the field; better, despite the season of young girls dropping their blood; better somehow to drop myself quickly into an old room. Better (someone said) not to be born and far better not to be born twice at thirteen where the boardinghouse, each year a bedroom, caught fire.
Dear friend, I will have to sink with hundreds of others on a dumbwaiter into hell. I will be a light thing. I will enter death like someone’s lost optical lens. Life is half enlarged. The fish and owls are fierce today. Life tilts backward and forward. Even the wasps cannot find my eyes.
Yes, eyes that were immediate once. Eyes that have been truly awake, eyes that told the whole story— poor dumb animals. Eyes that were pierced, little nail heads, light blue gunshots.
And once with a mouth like a cup, clay colored or blood colored, open like the breakwater for the lost ocean and open like the noose for the first head.
Once upon a time my hunger was for Jesus. O my hunger! My hunger! Before he grew old he rode calmly into Jerusalem in search of death.
This time I certainly do not ask for understanding and yet I hope everyone else will turn their heads when an unrehearsed fish jumps on the surface of Echo Lake; when moonlight, its bass note turned up loud, hurts some building in Boston, when the truly beautiful lie together. I think of this, surely, and would think of it far longer if I were not… if I were not at that old fire.
I could admit that I am only a coward crying me me me and not mention the little gnats, the moths, forced by circumstance to suck on the electric bulb. But surely you know that everyone has a death, his own death, waiting for him. So I will go now without old age or disease, wildly but accurately, knowing my best route, carried by that toy donkey I rode all these years, never asking, “Where are we going?” We were riding (if I’d only known) to this.
Dear friend, please do not think that I visualize guitars playing or my father arching his bone. I do not even expect my mother’s mouth. I know that I have died before— once in November, once in June. How strange to choose June again, so concrete with its green breasts and bellies. Of course guitars will not play! The snakes will certainly not notice. New York City will not mind. At night the bats will beat on the trees, knowing it all, seeing what they sensed all day. -Anne Sexton
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Post by Bastet on Aug 1, 2014 13:09:14 GMT -5
Lady Lazarus
I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it--
A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot
A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen.
Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?--
The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day.
Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me
And I a smiling woman. I am only thirty. And like the cat I have nine times to die.
This is Number Three. What a trash To annihilate each decade.
What a million filaments. The peanut-crunching crowd Shoves in to see
Them unwrap me hand and foot-- The big strip tease. Gentlemen, ladies
These are my hands My knees. I may be skin and bone,
Nevertheless, I am the same, identical woman. The first time it happened I was ten. It was an accident.
The second time I meant To last it out and not come back at all. I rocked shut
As a seashell. They had to call and call And pick the worms off me like sticky pearls.
Dying Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell. I do it so it feels real. I guess you could say I’ve a call.
It’s easy enough to do it in a cell. It’s easy enough to do it and stay put. It’s the theatrical
Comeback in broad day To the same place, the same face, the same brute Amused shout:
‘A miracle!' That knocks me out. There is a charge
For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge For the hearing of my heart-- It really goes.
And there is a charge, a very large charge For a word or a touch Or a bit of blood
Or a piece of my hair or my clothes. So, so, Herr Doktor. So, Herr Enemy.
I am your opus, I am your valuable, The pure gold baby
That melts to a shriek. I turn and burn. Do not think I underestimate your great concern.
Ash, ash-- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there--
A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling.
Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air. - Sylvia Plath
This is pretty much the only piece by Plath I like, and it reminds me of Aish
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Aug 3, 2014 3:51:39 GMT -5
Fairy Song
The moonlight fades from flower and rose And the stars dim one by one; The tale is told, the song is sung, And the Fairy feast is done. The night-wind rocks the sleeping flowers, And sings to them, soft and low. The early birds erelong will wake: 'T is time for the Elves to go.
O'er the sleeping earth we silently pass, Unseen by mortal eye, And send sweet dreams, as we lightly float Through the quiet moonlit sky;-- For the stars' soft eyes alone may see, And the flowers alone may know, The feasts we hold, the tales we tell; So't is time for the Elves to go.
From bird, and blossom, and bee, We learn the lessons they teach; And seek, by kindly deeds, to win A loving friend in each. And though unseen on earth we dwell, Sweet voices whisper low, And gentle hearts most joyously greet The Elves where'er they go.
When next we meet in the Fairy dell, May the silver moon's soft light Shine then on faces gay as now, And Elfin hearts as light. Now spread each wing, for the eastern sky With sunlight soon shall glow. The morning star shall light us home: Farewell! for the Elves must go.
by Louisa May Alcott
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Aug 5, 2014 3:16:30 GMT -5
If You Forget Me
I want you to know one thing.
You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land.
But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine.
~by Pablo Neruda
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Aug 5, 2014 3:17:51 GMT -5
Alone With Everybody
the flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and the men drink too much and nobody finds the one but keep looking crawling in and out of beds. flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh.
there's no chance at all: we are all trapped by a singular fate.
nobody ever finds the one.
the city dumps fill the junkyards fill the madhouses fill the hospitals fill the graveyards fill
nothing else fills.
~ by Charles Bukowski
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Post by Aish on Aug 5, 2014 16:23:55 GMT -5
Conversation
We smile at each other and I lean back against the wicker couch. How does it feel to be dead? I say. You touch 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. Don’t tell me, I say. I don't want to hear. Did you ever, you start, wear a certain kind of silk dress and just by accident, so inconsequential you barely notice it, your fingers graze that dress and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper, you see it too and you realize how that image is simply the extension of another image, that your own life is a chain of words that one day will snap. Words, you say, young girls in a circle, holding hands, and beginning to rise heavenward in their confirmation dresses, like white helium balloons, the wreaths of flowers on their heads spinning, and above all that, that’s where I’m floating, and that’s what it’s like only ten times clearer, ten times more horrible. Could anyone alive survive it?
- by Ai
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Post by Aish on Aug 5, 2014 16:25:34 GMT -5
Fox
She knew what she was and so was capable of anything anyone could imagine. She loved what she was, there for the taking, imagine.
She imagined nothing. She loved nothing more than what she had, which was enough for her, which was more than any man could handle.
- by Rita Dove
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Aug 10, 2014 23:17:39 GMT -5
Through a Glass, Darkly
Through the travail of the ages, Midst the pomp and toil of war, I have fought and strove and perished Countless times upon this star. In the form of many people In all panoplies of time Have I seen the luring vision Of the Victory Maid, sublime. I have battled for fresh mammoth, I have warred for pastures new, I have listed to the whispers When the race trek instinct grew. I have known the call to battle In each changeless changing shape From the high souled voice of conscience To the beastly lust for rape. I have sinned and I have suffered, Played the hero and the knave; Fought for belly, shame, or country, And for each have found a grave. I cannot name my battles For the visions are not clear, Yet, I see the twisted faces And I feel the rending spear. Perhaps I stabbed our Savior In His sacred helpless side. Yet, I've called His name in blessing When after times I died. In the dimness of the shadows Where we hairy heathens warred, I can taste in thought the lifeblood; We used teeth before the sword. While in later clearer vision I can sense the coppery sweat, Feel the pikes grow wet and slippery When our Phalanx, Cyrus met. Hear the rattle of the harness Where the Persian darts bounced clear, See their chariots wheel in panic From the Hoplite's leveled spear. See the goal grow monthly longer, Reaching for the walls of Tyre. Hear the crash of tons of granite, Smell the quenchless eastern fire. Still more clearly as a Roman, Can I see the Legion close, As our third rank moved in forward And the short sword found our foes. Once again I feel the anguish Of that blistering treeless plain When the Parthian showered death bolts, And our discipline was in vain. I remember all the suffering Of those arrows in my neck. Yet, I stabbed a grinning savage As I died upon my back. Once again I smell the heat sparks When my Flemish plate gave way And the lance ripped through my entrails As on Crecy's field I lay. In the windless, blinding stillness Of the glittering tropic sea I can see the bubbles rising Where we set the captives free. Midst the spume of half a tempest I have heard the bulwarks go When the crashing, point blank round shot Sent destruction to our foe. I have fought with gun and cutlass On the red and slippery deck With all Hell aflame within me And a rope around my neck. And still later as a General Have I galloped with Murat When we laughed at death and numbers Trusting in the Emperor's Star. Till at last our star faded, And we shouted to our doom Where the sunken road of Ohein Closed us in it's quivering gloom. So but now with Tanks a'clatter Have I waddled on the foe Belching death at twenty paces, By the star shell's ghastly glow. So as through a glass, and darkly The age long strife I see Where I fought in many guises, Many names, but always me. And I see not in my blindness What the objects were I wrought, But as God rules o'er our bickerings It was through His will I fought. So forever in the future, Shall I battle as of yore, Dying to be born a fighter, But to die again, once more.
~ General George S. Patton, Jr.
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Post by Aish on Aug 15, 2014 10:56:28 GMT -5
Shallow
A wondrous thing her puddle was, wondrous, and terrible as well for it was not too deep - (the same might be said of her) and this may or may not – be true - (as it may be with anyone) its condition – dependant upon many things outside itself (as it may be with anyone)
like rain - Sun, and and always, the possibility of boys seeking new novelties; in the end, it was this shallow, and had she ever known another - they’d likely think the same of her.
likely, but they’d be mistaken; for it was more her situation in life; in her puddle (for this is how she came to – think of it). that was not so deep and being all she knew, she adjusted - only half breathing - using just a parts of herself - for each breath; one eye up, unblinking one eye in the mud, unseeing half cool and wet; and, one half warm, and usually uncomfortable. (except on rainy days, oh how she loved those days) she didn’t like to think about winter.
and so she lived
once, after praying for eyelids, she wondered – if she had approached, the Correct gods and, in the appropriate order. (or if gods cared of such things as eyelids and of order) or was it (despite best intentions) that the Proper prayers, had not spoken or had been spoken, but incorrectly; (or if gods cared at all) in the end, she thought, it was most likely due to her apparent “Lack of Depth.” (this she came up with on her own)
the days without blinking in Sunshine have made her blind; and, perhaps that itself was the answer to the prayers. (dutifully she noted to be more precise in future requests)
but blind can moonlight still bath me she wondered; can the dreams of something called ocean still touch me?
and so she slept one eye blind one eye buried in the mud. and dreamt – of rain - and sun - and boys - and of the thing her bones remembered, the thing she called her ocean.
- Ruth Elliott
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Aug 15, 2014 14:21:52 GMT -5
I’ve a Secret to Tell Thee
I've a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here -- Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps: I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear, Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps; Where Summer's wave unmurmuring dies, Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush; Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs, The rose saith, chidingly, "Hush, sweet, hush!"
There, amid the deep silence of that hour, When stars can be heard in ocean dip, Thyself shall, under some rosy bower, Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip: Like him, the boy, who born among The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush, Sits ever thus -- his only song To earth and heaven, "Hush, all, hush!"
By Thomas Moore
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Sept 11, 2014 16:14:59 GMT -5
A Daughter of Eve
A fool I was to sleep at noon, And wake when night is chilly Beneath the comfortless cold moon; A fool to pluck my rose too soon, A fool to snap my lily.
My garden-plot I have not kept; Faded and all-forsaken, I weep as I have never wept: Oh it was summer when I slept, It's winter now I waken.
Talk what you please of future spring And sun-warm'd sweet to-morrow:— Stripp'd bare of hope and everything, No more to laugh, no more to sing, I sit alone with sorrow.
by Christina Rossetti
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Post by LonelyForsaken on Oct 24, 2014 22:44:00 GMT -5
An Old Man’s Winter Night All out of doors looked darkly in at him Through the thin frost, almost in separate stars, That gathers on the pane in empty rooms. What kept his eyes from giving back the gaze Was the lamp tilted near them in his hand. What kept him from remembering what it was That brought him to that creaking room was age. He stood with barrels round him—at a loss. And having scared the cellar under him In clomping there, he scared it once again In clomping off;—and scared the outer night, Which has its sounds, familiar, like the roar Of trees and crack of branches, common things, But nothing so like beating on a box. A light he was to no one but himself Where now he sat, concerned with he knew what, A quiet light, and then not even that. He consigned to the moon, such as she was, So late-arising, to the broken moon As better than the sun in any case For such a charge, his snow upon the roof, His icicles along the wall to keep; And slept. The log that shifted with a jolt Once in the stove, disturbed him and he shifted, And eased his heavy breathing, but still slept. One aged man—one man—can’t fill a house, A farm, a countryside, or if he can, It’s thus he does it of a winter night.
~Robert Frost
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Post by Terrah_ko on Nov 19, 2014 16:58:32 GMT -5
William Butler Yeats. b. 1865
When You are Old
When you are old and gray and full of sleep And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace, 5 And loved your beauty with love false or true; But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face.
And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled 10 And paced upon the mountains overhead, And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
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