(no subject)
Jun. 20th, 2018 03:37 pm"Deliverance", a protest poem and prayer.
(no subject)
Jul. 1st, 2017 12:29 pmPoetry folks who are Seanan McGuire fans, you want to go pledge $5/mo to her Patreon. The first poem's up and it's stellar and I already want to fanfic it.
I mean, you may not have the able-and-willing to go pledge $5/mo to McGuire's Patreon. But I'm pretty sure you want to. :-D
I mean, you may not have the able-and-willing to go pledge $5/mo to McGuire's Patreon. But I'm pretty sure you want to. :-D
Fun fact of the day! The line They tried to bury us; they didn't know we were seeds that I think probably we've all heard phrased basically so and attributed as a Mexican proverb?
It's a misquote or else a different English translation of a queer Greek poet writing in the 1970s, name of Dinos Christianopoulos.
It's a misquote or else a different English translation of a queer Greek poet writing in the 1970s, name of Dinos Christianopoulos.
(no subject)
Apr. 9th, 2017 05:32 pmOkay you all need to go read "Clearing" by Martha Postlethwaite, posted over ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
musesfool way. It's particularly resonating with me as an activist and multimedia artist right now.
musesfool way. It's particularly resonating with me as an activist and multimedia artist right now.(no subject)
Feb. 22nd, 2017 09:51 amSeen on Daily Compass:
The Church says: the body is a sin.
Science says: the body is a machine.
Advertising says: The body is a business.
The Body says: I am a fiesta.
—Eduardo Galeano
The Church says: the body is a sin.
Science says: the body is a machine.
Advertising says: The body is a business.
The Body says: I am a fiesta.
—Eduardo Galeano
(no subject)
Feb. 2nd, 2017 04:41 pmI don't suppose Cheeto reads poetry. Having been reminded of John Donne, I wish Cheeto and all his ilk to internalize it.
John Donne
Meditation 17
Devotions upon Emergent Occasions
"No man is an iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee...."
John Donne
Meditation 17
Devotions upon Emergent Occasions
"No man is an iland, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were; any mans death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee...."
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
(no subject)
Jan. 26th, 2017 11:04 am"The Might of the Mountain's Crown", a Rannaicheacht Mhor Gairit by ysabetwordsmith. Complex Celtic poetic form, addressing Cadair Idris legends. GLEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.
ysabetwordsmith. Complex Celtic poetic form, addressing Cadair Idris legends. GLEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.(no subject)
Nov. 23rd, 2016 12:27 am"Pestel Street"
Tomas Venclova, tr. Diana Senechal
from Winter Dialogue
The glass reflects only dust,
Warm wine trickles
Into the hazy chalice.
The air is flavored with fading
Cupola gold in the sun.
Algae, like Cyrillic characters,
Blacken the narrow canal.
( What do you seek here, poet? )
So, uh. My Yuleswap books are here. As I told my sender, I opened the one volume to a random page—happens it was the second page of "Pestel Street"—and fell in love. I'm not sure I have enough brain to dig deeper into Venclova tonight, or begin on the other volume (which is by Eugeniusz Tkaczyszyn-Dycki, tr. Bill Johnston), but I am gonna roll around happily in "Pestel Street" for a while. What do you seek here, poet? To change time into a stanza, to concentrate fear into meaning. (Okay, the verse I fell in love with is Lethe and the airless universe, but whatever.)
Tomas Venclova, tr. Diana Senechal
from Winter Dialogue
...a low dishonest decade...Summer submerges the city,
W.H. Auden
The glass reflects only dust,
Warm wine trickles
Into the hazy chalice.
The air is flavored with fading
Cupola gold in the sun.
Algae, like Cyrillic characters,
Blacken the narrow canal.
( What do you seek here, poet? )
So, uh. My Yuleswap books are here. As I told my sender, I opened the one volume to a random page—happens it was the second page of "Pestel Street"—and fell in love. I'm not sure I have enough brain to dig deeper into Venclova tonight, or begin on the other volume (which is by Eugeniusz Tkaczyszyn-Dycki, tr. Bill Johnston), but I am gonna roll around happily in "Pestel Street" for a while. What do you seek here, poet? To change time into a stanza, to concentrate fear into meaning. (Okay, the verse I fell in love with is Lethe and the airless universe, but whatever.)
(no subject)
Nov. 2nd, 2016 02:56 pmA little Learning is a dang'rous Thing;—from Alexander Pope, "An Essay on Criticism"
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring:
There shallow Draughts intoxicate the Brain,
And drinking largely sobers us again.
Fir'd at first Sight with what the Muse imparts,
In fearless Youth we tempt the Heights of Arts,
While from the bounded Level of our Mind,
Short Views we take, nor see the lengths behind,
But more advanc'd, behold with strange Surprize
New, distant Scenes of endless Science rise!
So pleas'd at first, the towring Alps we try,
Mount o'er the Vales, and seem to tread the Sky;
Th' Eternal Snows appear already past,
And the first Clouds and Mountains seem the last:
But those attain'd, we tremble to survey
The growing Labours of the lengthen'd Way,
Th' increasing Prospect tires our wandering Eyes,
Hills peep o'er Hills, and Alps on Alps arise!
(no subject)
Apr. 18th, 2016 05:32 pmFeminist poem.
It's one of those "read from the top down, then from the bottom up" poems. Someday I will write one that works as intended.
It's one of those "read from the top down, then from the bottom up" poems. Someday I will write one that works as intended.
Death Dance for a Poet, by Audre Lorde
Mar. 30th, 2016 12:54 pmHidden in a forest of questions
unwilling to embrace blackthorn trees
to yield
to go into madness gracefully
or alone
the woman is no longer young
she has come to hate slowly
her skin of transparent metal
the sinuous exposure without reprieve
her eyes of clay
heavy with the fruit of prophetic dreaming.
( In the hungers of silence [...] )
unwilling to embrace blackthorn trees
to yield
to go into madness gracefully
or alone
the woman is no longer young
she has come to hate slowly
her skin of transparent metal
the sinuous exposure without reprieve
her eyes of clay
heavy with the fruit of prophetic dreaming.
( In the hungers of silence [...] )
Communication I, by Maya Angelou
Mar. 30th, 2016 12:35 pmShe wished of him a lover's kiss and
nights of coupled twining.
They laced themselves
between the trees
and to the water's edge.
Reminding her
the cratered moon lay light-years away,
he spoke of Greece, the Parthenon
and Cleopatra's barge.
She splayed her foot
up to her shin
within the ocean brine.
He quoted Pope and Bernard Shaw
and Catcher in the Rye.
Her sandal lost,
she dried her toe
and then she mopped her brow.
Dry-eyed
she walked into her room
and frankly told her mother,
"Of all he said, I understood
he said he loved another."
nights of coupled twining.
They laced themselves
between the trees
and to the water's edge.
Reminding her
the cratered moon lay light-years away,
he spoke of Greece, the Parthenon
and Cleopatra's barge.
She splayed her foot
up to her shin
within the ocean brine.
He quoted Pope and Bernard Shaw
and Catcher in the Rye.
Her sandal lost,
she dried her toe
and then she mopped her brow.
Dry-eyed
she walked into her room
and frankly told her mother,
"Of all he said, I understood
he said he loved another."
Death is a dialogue between
The spirit and the dust.
"Dissolve," says Death. The Spirit, "Sir,
I have another trust."
Death doubts it, argues from the ground.
The Spirit turns away,
Just laying off, for evidence,
An overcoat of clay.
I see thee clearer for the Grave
That took thy face between
No Mirror could illumine thee
Like that impassive stone —
I know thee better for the Act
That made thee first unknown
The stature of the empty nest
Attests the Bird that's gone.
Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.
We slowly drove—He knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—
We passed the School, where Children strove
At recess—in the ring—
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—
Or rather—He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—
Since then—'tis centuries— and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity—
The spirit and the dust.
"Dissolve," says Death. The Spirit, "Sir,
I have another trust."
Death doubts it, argues from the ground.
The Spirit turns away,
Just laying off, for evidence,
An overcoat of clay.
I see thee clearer for the Grave
That took thy face between
No Mirror could illumine thee
Like that impassive stone —
I know thee better for the Act
That made thee first unknown
The stature of the empty nest
Attests the Bird that's gone.
Because I could not stop for Death—
He kindly stopped for me—
The Carriage held but just Ourselves—
And Immortality.
We slowly drove—He knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility—
We passed the School, where Children strove
At recess—in the ring—
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain—
We passed the Setting Sun—
Or rather—He passed Us—
The Dews drew quivering and chill—
For only Gossamer, my Gown—
My Tippet—only Tulle—
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground—
The Roof was scarcely visible—
The Cornice—in the Ground—
Since then—'tis centuries— and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were toward Eternity—
Dust if you must, but wouldn’t it be better
To paint a picture or write a letter,
Bake a cake or plant a seed,
Ponder the difference between want and need?
Dust if you must, but there is not much time
With rivers to swim and mountains to climb,
Music to hear and books to read,
Friends to cherish and life to lead.
Dust if you must, but the world’s out there,
With the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain.
This day will not come round again.
Dust if you must, but bear in mind,
Old age will come and it’s not kind.
And when you go—and go you must—
You, yourself, will make more dust.
To paint a picture or write a letter,
Bake a cake or plant a seed,
Ponder the difference between want and need?
Dust if you must, but there is not much time
With rivers to swim and mountains to climb,
Music to hear and books to read,
Friends to cherish and life to lead.
Dust if you must, but the world’s out there,
With the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain.
This day will not come round again.
Dust if you must, but bear in mind,
Old age will come and it’s not kind.
And when you go—and go you must—
You, yourself, will make more dust.
