Sunday, February 17, 2013

A Love Poem Project part 14

Saint Valentine.
although tired, should the interested party
impart the plot of the dreamer's cause
by permanently fixating?

Might you have killed a stale
form of the be-ers inconsiderate mind?
or bridge neatly a sober thought through
a perfectly false leaf from home.

dug up from underneath,
a wish for touch or that minute filled fully
and called "amorously unarmed
silhouette" fawning over a woman.

Or did the angel
prevent parasites from burying deep back against
those descendants mightier since a protest?
But wondering is the maker

of friends. Why tinker
with any of ours in connection
with the affair or the wine no one drank?
by then the mark did not fit.

For February 14th by Marianne Moore from Complete Poems

Saint Valentine.
although late, would "some interested law
impelled to plod in the poem's cause"
be permitted a line?

Might you have liked a stone
from a De Beers Consolidated Mine?
or badger-neat saber-thronged thistle
of Palestine--the leaves alone

down'd underneath,
worth a touch? or that mimosa-leafed vine
called an "alexander's armillary
sphere" fanning out in a wreath?

Or did the ark
preserve paradise-birds with jet-black plumbs,
whose descendants might serve as presents?
But questioning is the mark

of pest! Why think
only of animals in connection
with the ark or the wine Noah drank?
but that the ark did not sink.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

A Love Poem Project part 13

First, a love must be magical,
Then musical as a sea-gull.
It must be a brightness moving
And hold secret a bird's flowering.
It must be slender as a bell,
And it must bold fire as well.
It must have the wisdom of bows
And it must kneel like a rose.
It must be able to hear
The luminance of dove and deer.
It must be able to hide
What it seeks, like a bride.
And over all I would like to hover
God, smiling from the lovers' cover.

(note: i know this seems like a very small change... but the poem is already so lovely.  i only have to change two words to change the entire meaning, and i do love it so)

Have Come, Am Here part 15 by Jose Garcia Villa from The Anchored Angel

First, a poem must be magical,
Then musical as a sea-gull.
It must be a brightness moving
And hold secret a bird's flowering.
It must be slender as a bell,
And it must bold fire as well.
It must have the wisdom of bows
And it must kneel like a rose.
It must be able to hear
The luminance of dove and deer.
It must be able to hide
What it seeks, like a bride.
And over all I would like to hover
God, smiling from the poem's cover.

A Love Poem Project part 12

Heartbreak is contagious, a hot fire
in the stomach, to numb the heart
and let sweaty palms grow moist
in the morning traffic.  We seek
out companions, imagine their forgiveness
along with a cool tangle of arms.
Before night, before morning they would
be bringing us back into warm motions
and rituals, all breasts eternally permitting,
growing in love.  We are hopeful.
A reunited beloved girl gains
our trust. A careful tongue hangs
on its every mouthful, its bright
mood bringing to life our pathos.
Our eyes turn cold and tired;
hair grows in our eyes; a stink
of deception, foul clouding of moments
and lies. But light comes, we break
our very best. The first bride to be.
Great sobs surface and softly subside
around us. Ancient ghosts of the past?
No, Friends are falling in our scene.

The Beginning of Myth by William Hathaway from The Gymnast of Inertia

Breakfast is congnac, a cozy fire
for the stomach, to numb the lips
and let swamp trees grow emerald
in the morning mist.  We fish
for crappie, imagine their huge eyes
aglow in a cold tangle of roots.
Before day, before history the wood
is swollen black, the water murky
with danger, all beasts eternally pregnant,
grunting in labor.  We are drunk.
A reptile becoming a bird groans
in trees. A purple tongue hangs
from the fish's mouth and its bright
blood drips to beetles in palmetto.
Our eyes turn old and terribly keen;
hair grows in our shoes; a stink
of dinosaur, flies clouding their mouths
and eyes. But light comes, we break
out the beer. The fish begin to bite.
Great bubbles surface and softly belch
around us. Ancient gases of the dead?
No, Frogs are farting in their sleep.

Tuesday, February 12, 2013

A Love Poem Project part 11

Candy, foil wrapped,
cardboard and paper.

The construction
of the truffle.

Little chocolate whirls
and at the center a surprise
awaits covered all around.

Candy, foil wrapped,
cardboard and paper.

Night by Federico Garcia Lorca from Poem of the Deep Song (Poema del Cante Jondo)

Candle, oil lamp,
lamppost and firefly.

The constellation
of the saeta.

Little golden windows
and at dawn superimposed
crosses sway about.

Candle, oil lamp,
lamppost and firefly.

A Love Poem Project part 10

Should there not be a forbidden love, should there not be in the present sentiment of golden aged permissions, should there not be by a sacrifice, should there be.
Count the losses, cut the chains, silence the moon and the fire flies. See the balance slip under waves, see the way the sharks are waiting unseen from the sea, from that and underneath.
Cut the whole of space into twenty fortresses and then and then is there a blood line, there is but it is old, it is then put where it is and nothing can change.
A regal decree of red means that, a regal exchange is made.
Climbing altogether in when there is no last chance of mending no more than a dying king, commanding all of this as stubborn as a jam.
Just as they are suffering, just as they are separated, just as they are love so is there no dying.

Cranberries by Gertrude Stein from Tender Buttons

Could there not be a sudden date, could there not be in the present settlement of old age pensions, could there not be by a witness, could there be.
Count the chain, cut the grass, silence the noon and murder flies. See the basting undip the chart, see the way the kinds are best seen from the rest, from that and untidy.
Cut the whole space into twenty-four spaces and then and then is there a yellow color, there is but it is smelled, it is then put where it is and nothing stolen.
A remarkable degree of red means that, a remarkable exchange is made.
Climbing altogether in when there is a solid chance of soiling no more than a dirty thing, coloring all of it in steadying is jelly.
Just as it is suffering, just as it is succeeded, just as it is most so is there no countering.

Monday, February 11, 2013

nemo was his name-o

the love poem project will resume tomorrow, and there will still be 28 poems.  i'll post three or four tomorrow to catch up - just need to translate them ^_^

silly blizzard... knocking out power out for two solid days!

Saturday, February 09, 2013

A Love Poem Project part 9

What thoughts I had of you today, John Barrowman, while I skipped down the main road under the awnings with a bunch of carnations looking at the sale signs.
With my humble finances, and window shopping my dreams, I went into the Asian food market, dreaming of your enameled whites!
What coconuts and what persimmons! Whole families shopping at once! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the noodles, babies in the rice!--and you, John Barrowman, what were you doing down by the fish counter?

I saw you, John Barrowman, careless, goofy old grubber, joking among the natives in the refrigerator and winking at the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions in Welch: Who killed the angels? What price for marriage? Are you my executioner?
I wandered in and out of the colorful columns of cans and followed you, and followed in my imagination by the oriental time agents.
We galloped down the thin corridors together in our solitary fancy shaking cheese puffs, acquiring a taste for dried crab, and never passing the police box.

Where are we going, John Barrowman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your smile point today?
(I touch your pecs and dream of our odyssey in the supernova galaxy and feel giddy.)
Will we fly all night through solitary universe? The bees add buzzing to buzzing, lights out in the suns, around lonely planets.
Will we spin dreaming of the lost dogmas of love past blue spaceships in driveways, home to our silent planet?
Ah, dear actor, slick hair, horny old future-man, what did America do to you when roses quit pollinating with fairies and you stepped out to a screaming crowd and stood watching the ship disappear on the black skies of earth?

A Supermarket in California by Alan Ginsberg from Howl and other poems Berkeley 1955

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost American of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

Friday, February 08, 2013

A Love Poem Project part 8

Love has trickled
down young pupils branches
to a thin howl.
It is planted in every vein
to keep the untidy mirth of wondering.
Everyone around me is crying to go home.
The dancers, the singers humming to be left alone and be done with.

Sulking in the bathroom stalls, migraine of weeping,
between the deep sobs and the road to forgetting,
I want to stop, to lie down
to scream out what my heart feels.

Behind me others wait to express their losses
all over the surfaces of stalls for hire.
They go in, they write about me.
They reveal secrets and gawk,
until the school closes and I continue on.

Walking in the Breakdown Lane by Louise Erdrich from Original Fire: Selected and New Poems

Wind has stripped
the young plum trees
to a thing howl.
They are planted in squares
to keep the loose dirt from wandering.
Everything around me is crying to be gone.
The fields, the crops humming to be cut and done with.

Walking in the breakdown lane, margin of gravel,
between the cut swaths and the road to Fargo,
I want to stop, to lie down
in standing wheat of standing water.

Behind me thunder mounts as trucks of cattle
roar over, faces pressed to slats for air.
They go on, they go on without me.
They pound, pound and bawl,
until the road closes over them farther on.

Thursday, February 07, 2013

A Love Poem Project part 7

We stood by at dawn that blistered day,
And watched the sun turn white, as though
lovers we looked on,
And a few whispers lay on the starving ears,
--They left us fallen from silences, and our happy

Your eyes on me were as eyes that hide
Under tedious accusations that we should have resolved;
And some words you played between the good and
the bad--
On each side a loss more than our love.

The sick smile on your mouth is the ugliest
Vile enough to halve a woman's strength to live;
And the will of sour apples to hang to the tree
Like luminous signs against grace...

Since then, a few lessons learned from my love,
And words where I too was wrong, have slapped against
Your face, and the cold-lighted sun, and an apple tree
And a dawn remembered with grayish detail.

Neutral Tones by Thomas Hardy from Wessex Poems

We stood by a pond that winter day,
And the sun was white, as though
chidden of God,
And a few leaves lay on the starving sod,
--They had fallen from an ash, and were

Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove
Over tedious riddles solved years ago;
And some words played between us to and
On which lost the more by our love.

The smile on your mouth was the deadest
Alive enough to have strength to die;
And a grin of bitterness swept therby
Like an ominous bird a-wing...

Since then, keen lessons that love deceives,
And wrings with wrong, have shaped me to
Your face, and the God-crust sun, and a tree
And a pond edged with grayish leaves.

Tuesday, February 05, 2013

On Janine Canan's ARDOR: poems of life

i don't do many reviews on my poetry blog.  in fact, this is only the second review i have been asked to do by other poets.  but then, i am always up for a new experience.  a new challenge.

reading Janine Canan's Ardor: poems of life was not much of a challenge, though.  it was more of a journey.  unplanned, not perfect, but overall rather pleasant, and sorely topical.
my knowledge of Janine Canan began with a comment left on one of my own blog posts by Cristina, a friend of Janine's.  Cristina very kindly asked me if i would be interested in reading and writing about Janine's newest collection of poetry.  so i sought out Janine via google.  i found her website and some pretty pictures of a white haired woman with poems like "beloved mother" (which epitomizes much of the poetry by Janine that i have now read).  because i was asked so nicely; and because i find Janine's look so endearing, nurturing, soft; because some day i want to be a pretty, white haired older lady with books of poetry for sale; and because i felt like taking on a little project, i emailed Janine and asked for a copy of her book.
i hadn't paid much attention to the picture of the book on the website.  when i opened the package though, i was suddenly faced with a book i had to read.  a book i had to read.  that's no way to begin a review, is it?  the ugly green and impressionistic floral arrangement on the cover of the book left me a little lack luster at the onset.  but since I've held the book near me for over a week, i find the picture of the painting a little more casual, a little more... made.  (sorry, this pea-soup green is still not doing anything for me though).  alas, we do not judge books on their covers alone.
inside i was greeted with warm wishes from the poet herself, followed by the realization (because i am one of those people who reads the copyright pages of books) that the bound pages i now held in my hand were printed and glued in India.  i don't think any of the other books i have are from India.  mostly England, America, Canada, and a few Lebanese pieces, but this is my first from India.  although i am not entirely sure why that would endear me to a text, it very much does.  perhaps it's the quality of knowing how traveled a product is, how unique it is in that right. 
with this, i sat myself down and surrounded myself with the pleasures of India i have adapted into my imagination from a few choice films (eat, prey, love and the best exotic marigold hotel, to be exact) and tucked into Janine's work.
i began reading.  the first poem was nice.  the second poem... i smiled.  i smiled out of confusion and surprise.  a kind of head-tilted smile.  what's going on here?  Janine, an established poet, is telling her readership, in the second poem, that she's the poet.  that these are poems.  that these poems are words.  that these words are important.  i shook my head a little at this unnecessary and blatant approach at establishing the poet's ethos.  i didn't let it slow me down too much though, considering that every greek poet is heralded for this very gesture.  what was even stranger to me was that merely 29 pages later, Janine further presses her ethos as the poet on the readership by telling us that she is "just a poet".    
ethos aside, the collection of poems focuses very heavily on womanhood.  there are, without a doubt, issues surrounding the genders today, as there have been for all of history.  although i, myself, feel very privileged to live where and when i do, the gap between men and women is significant and visceral.  the issue is so prevalent in the text, however, that by page 79 i wrote this note in pencil: i am beginning to feel that these poems help only to draw attention to and, therefore, widen the gap between genders/sexes. as a woman reading this, i feel, with each poem, more and more, that i am being littled and driven down.  this is probably not the poet's intent.
indeed not.  i believe Janine's intent is clearly to praise women.  the juxtaposed imagery of men and women is in such high contrast throughout the collection, though, that it really does draw attention to the gap, the divide.  admittedly, this is the first step towards healing.  as a culture, perhaps it is important that we all read some of Janine's poems and acknowledge the divide, to have it repeatedly show to us through comparing and contrasting sights.
i felt, while reading, bogged down in the mire of women's issues.  there are, however, a few bright gems sprinkled throughout the collection... "Mountain Moving Day is here--/believe it or not", "...Would you really/rather be a cow or/a lizard?", "...shouting in a voice so loud/even the deaf can hear", "I was a peach dripping gold/and you drank me",  and whole poems like "Bowl of Gold" that displays variety in Janine's view of herself and the world beyond who and what a woman is to the rest of the universe. 
i dog-eared just over 20 out of the over 200 poems in the book.  there are moments of grace and beauty, of abundance and virtue.  there are poems in this collection i will reread and learn more about over time. 
politics and individual poems aside, the entire collection carried me from thought to thought, question to question.  even when i began to beg the book for something specific, it seemed to deliver.  for example, i began to crave something solid, something real, an itch, something dirty and authentic.  lo, the next page was of a poem wherein the poet exposes her every thought as it occurs, including the need to wash some dishes.  when i began to crave something sweet, towards the very end of reading, to sweeten my final experiences with the text, Janine and her book provided it in the simple three-stanza poem "Sunflower"--22 pretty words turned into a pretty scene. 
so while there are some poems in the book i adore, the book really works best as a book.  it is not the kind of poetry i think i would garner any true meaning or pleasure from by reading just one poem.  the entire text must be engaged all at once for the benefit of the reader, the poetry, and the poet.
as a female poet myself, while i lust over the modernists and new york school of poets, i have a softer spot in my heart for the likes of Louise Erdrich, Bernadette Mayer, Anna Akhmatova, Marie Howe, Lyn Hejinian, Mina Loy and Marianne Moore.  all strong female figures whom i admire for their bravery, their femininity, their sexuality, and their strength of character. 
i am not sure, only to be fair to her, if Janine Canan is among these women in my poetess's heart quite yet.  although her work is pure in its intention, i am not sure the delivery--the product as it is presented without context of the nice white haired woman--stands up with those greats.  but among contemporary female poets, i believe Janine is a finer example.
as a collection, read cover to cover, the document works.  it tells an over-arching story of women's struggle along with moments of ease which allow the reader to arch her back and take a deep breath.  it meets expectations and follows the reader's thoughts throughout.  the organization of poems was well-executed.  to open up a random page and read; however, left me a little unsatisfied.

so while the entire collection strikes me as neither good nor bad, it does feel completely honest (true to Janine, i think).  and i don't know that i can demand much more of poetry.

A Love Poem Project part 6

The lovers of the east-side return
But this time from outer space.
It is the same noise, the same needs,
But it is not Spring.

You said the stars fall in the morning.
The stars fall deep in darkness
On life where it sleeps and where the lovers
Keep hanging their bras on door hinges....

Say this to Papa, tell the doorbell
That to breach is to slowly intrude.
Say that the poets' moon comes up
grey, clean, and lousy  with music.

Say that in the clean urban streets
The plumes of blue and green grow.  The lovers
Hang on each other as they used to do.
Millions hold millions in their arms.

Memorandum by Wallace Stevens from Opus Posthumous: Poems, Plays, Prose

The katy-dids at Ephrata return
But this time at another place.
It is the same sound, the same season,
But it is not Ephrata.

You said the dew falls in the blood.
The dew falls deep in mind
On life itself and there the katy-dids
Keep whanging their brass wings....

Say this to Pravda, tell the damned rag
That the peaches are slowly ripening.
Say that the American moon comes up
Cleansed clean of lousy Byzantium.

Say that in the clear Atlantic night
The plums are blue on the trees.  The katy-dids
Bang cymbals as they used to do.
Millions hold millions in their arms.

A Love Poem Project part 5

i fall down inside her
and our hearts break out of love

i know
how beautiful
her devious smile
her brutal sin
have touched her arms
_________her belly
our legs tangle
when i realize i
want to see her arms bend back
__on her barely breathing body
__and i cant do it

i try but my heart
until all i can see
is Beverly, Beverly
tired, laying next to me

i get over confident
i don't really want to hurt her
or do anything but be  away from her

my ribs breaking
against the hard street surface

i cant do anything
except think hopelessly
about the dull lights in my
head as i wonder if she can
help me get up

out of the 3 sensations
compensating for nausea
waiting for some one to
slam in

i tell her when
she really wants

she can have

whatever she wants

and i am will hold my breath
in my lungs
before i tell her the truth

Poem for Beverly by d. a. levy from The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry

i sit down next to her
& our toes begin a love dance

i think
how beautiful
her dark smile
her brown skin
& i touch her arms
_________her belly
our legs touch
& i realize i
want to see my white hand
__on her dark breasts
__and i cant do it

i try but my eyes
& all i can see
is Beverly, Beverly
tired & laying next to me

i get very confused
i don't really want to do
anything but be  next to her

my hand touching
the small of her back

i cant do anything
except think love thoughts
to her & flash lights in my
head & wonder if she can
hear me loving her

in the 9 dimensional
collapseable universe
waiting for some one to
do it

i ask her what
she really wants

she knows!

she wants security

& i am so old and silly
in my need
i tell her the truth

Monday, February 04, 2013

A Love Poem Project part 4

Some mornings you can see the light of the universe.
Stirring view, that thrives in the folds of the darkness.
You are moving through this light ahead that holds a secret
for the clambering of moths, each night, between the beams.

We are the love nobody has seen since the light was born.
Let us spread out among yellow stars.
To write our names in letters of dust among the galaxies.
Oh let us color love as love was before you existed.

Slowly the celestial tides and bursts all shutter at this window.
The earth's sky is a rake with shadows of life.
There all the lights let go of their luster sooner or later.
The sun takes off her clothes.

The moon goes by, fleeting.
The light. The dust.
I can compare it only against the darkness of space.
The storm that whirls invisible leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to Jupiter.

We are there. Oh, you do not float this way.
But will you answer us this last wonder.
Strapped to one as though one were freewheeling.
Uneven through all time in strange shadows that feast on your fears.

Zero, zero to just one, we bring homesickness,
and wishes made in beastly wells of stone.
While the stellar wind goes slaughtering nebulas
We love you, and your happiness is the light in the void.

How you lust and suffer even after we are,
too strange, solitaire stars, our names that are so unimportant.
So distant at times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and could do nothing but bow our heads in grey light.

These words rained into you, soaking you.
All along time we have loved the sunned soil of your planet.
We go so far as to think that you are the universe.
We will be your happy daisies of the galaxy, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic swirls of particles.
We are
only with you when you look up, past the cherry trees.

Every Day You Play by Pablo Neruda from Twenty Love Poems and Songs of Despair

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off their clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here. Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads that grey light unwind in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
I go so far as to think that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Sunday, February 03, 2013

A Love Poem Project part 3

These private minutes punctuate fatality
With something new.  Such modification must consider
how the historians repair copulation and eroticism
into all known fears.

By arranging us against each others' bedding
Or these desires outnumbering you.  Listen to the tape spin and break,
We are all bound to the gun, we harlots, we whores,
We women, mothers, daughters.

We observe men gesticulating,
Observe them going down.  The red severed lies, the passion
Man pays to impart; our cold lust for leverage
Warrants all actions.

We are not Ceasar's, you know,
To dance to these crude bards of his.  We are fat
From Devil's desserts, but fatter still from his dirty
little lies.

Let boys want pleasure, and men
Struggle for power, but women will rise to fame,
And the servitude to be ended by Leaders and the dupes of each time.
Ours is now theirs.

Be Angry at the Sun by Robinson Jeffers from Selected Poems (Original Copyright 1963)

That public men publish falsehoods
Is nothing new.  That America must accept
Like the historical republics corruption and empire
Has been known for years.

Be angry at the sun for setting
If these things anger you.  Watch the wheel slope and turn,
They are all bound on the wheel, these people, those warriors,
This republic, Europe, Asia.

Observe them gesticulating,
Observe them going down.  The gang serves lies, the passionate
Man plays his part; the cold passion for truth
Hunts in no pack.

You are not Catullus, you know,
To lampoon these crude sketches of Caesar.  You are far
From Dante's feet, but even farther from his dirty
Political hatreds.

Let boys want pleasure, and men
Struggle for power, and women perhaps for fame,
And the servile to serve a Leader and the dupes to be duped.
Yours is not theirs.

Saturday, February 02, 2013

A Love Poem Project part 2

Don't show her the way out,
fore her eyes are starved to stare.
It's not love sharing this room.
you kick her where it hurts best,
point arrows at her for fun,
Keep her away from true love
her womb is impenetrable
starving; her neck is broken;
we wane in a lapping fire.
If you would only love--
she would find pleasure at your touch,
And her heart come back in a truce.

by Paulos Silentiarios from Poems from the Greek Anthology

Don't tell me I'm getting gray,
That my eyes are red and bleared.
It's just love having a romp.
He kicks me where it hurts most,
Sticks arrows in me for fun,
Keeps me awake with lewd tales
My loins are prematurely
Shriveled; my neck is scrawny;
I wane in a waxing fire.
If you would only relent--
I would grow plump at your touch,
And my hair turn black in a night.

Friday, February 01, 2013

A Love Poem Project part 1

it's difficult to divide lyn hekinian's works up into individual poems and still get the sensation of experiencing her journey.  here, i have taken two parts of her writing is an aid to memory and translated them into love poems for you.

_______________we should show the world some class
__________something to amuse, to break the men, and
_________shoot their democracies down
__________kisses move and move the heart
______________most darkened, plastered fogged up
__________in return for some new information
____________________two girls in dresses two retort
_____________________unfashionable and compassionate those
revive ordeals
____________________the price of demolishing is worth
___________________sorting these and those apart
____________________for principle sounds of his own heart
________love his quiet tongue a language
_______________subsided revealing music in a song
__________of birds so greatly misunderstood
binding men to diving thoughts of new feminine forms breaking
_________________for fire
____________and despair in failure to seduce
by way of good deeds each summer
________________something tangible to his kindness like an apple
________________too great to fall on emotional grounds
_________________his eyes are closed by a women and her scorn

here are lyn hejinian's original poems, part 6 and 7 from writing is an aid to memory

_______________you must show yourself to catch
__________to be amused, to equate the man, to
_________shoot his autobiographical work
__________ideas move and move the thinker
______________more parted, pasted dog up
__________in return far of the information
____________________the schoolboy is decent to retort
_____________________unfashionable and compassionate whose
dive order
____________________the rate of forgetting is greatest
___________________storing that and these processes
____________________the principle source is his own and
________life is quality through a language
_______________substitute inventing music of a series
__________of changes very little understood
binding men for driving through a new internal logic fire
_________________to fish
____________of despair of failure for knowledge
by way of despair for the road
________________something edible to his nose like an ape
________________great heat to melt on emotional sympathy
_________________his eyes were closed by a student and close friend

A Love Poem Project

february has 28 days this year.  february is also a month associated, because of St Valentine's Day, with love, lust, passion and poetry.  therefore, i have selected 28 of my favorite books of poetry.  every day of february, i will selected one poem from one of these 28 books to translate into my own words, creating a love poem inspired by the original text (which I will also publish so you can enjoy the inspiring poem in its original form). 
i hope you enjoy and, maybe, fall in love a little.