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Poets are like Hands, Helpful
Contributed by
Ina
on
Tuesday, 10th August 2004 @ 10:59:37 PM in AEST
Topic:
oops
|
Snyder
your Uji Hills have
stood handsomely
under the weight
of every single love poem
I have traveled
silently behind you
through Venus
now I am letting you listen
Oppenheimer
you wrote about fleeting passions
at St, Marks church
remember I slept next to you
salivating
you have become
my index for love that is why
I am letting you listen
Kelly
you freed Christ
from where I suspended him
when we smoked the sea
in that dead city near our hometown
you owe me one Van Gogh ear
silence is flipping my hair so I can
write this now or never
my tongue is ready to dry clean the air
(my poem is to be read to the rhythm of guitar strings hitting flesh)
A man
whos age is a finished pyramid
likes to call me
Bloody Trinity
and I dont like it one bit!
This man has lost his hair
he has lost his job
but he still has his life
long and intertwined with the worlds hair
Snyder
you know that my life is the length of a fingernail
and the width of a pupil
how can I compete?
I can burn roads ahead
to match his train of thought
but burning is a crime
This man loves me
(in McGraths words)
like Hitler because I am blond
and weak
weak
weak
I have only a tennis racket
against his flood of love;
and a dead sea with wings
His name
begins with fair and ends in unfair
like a timeline of emotions
and I am lost in the margins
And this old cat
swims through
old routine traffic
and I
little Kitten called Spring
(copyrighted C*mmings)
while he passes me
hiding in the soapy gutter
I live through my stomach, Lamantia
and you know that children murder
when swallowed whole by love;
a child like me
called Kitten of Spring
My genitals beaten to a pulp, Levine
so sorry for these pink pillows
suffocating his black balls
I open crumbled maps to sexuality; black and white
you KNOW this, Lavine
Carruth
you once asked the world
why speak of the use of poetry?
poetry uses US;
grinding hearts against one another
to spark vision
to set fire to hopeless
sad pages-ashes are melancholy
ashes are love crumbs
he bribes me with, once a day, maybe
My poets
you must write about his
bargained arrogance
in your coffins
with splinters and charcoal bones
I beg you
I am neither creative or smart enough
to make him understand
I have one more favor
in my little heart pocket
to trouble you with
(and youve all listened well like charming
church birds)
I need to know
when is love
***** up enough to be called
an obsession
Copyright ©
Ina
... [
2004-08-10 22:59:37]
(Date/Time posted on
site)
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Re: Poets are like Hands, Helpful
(User Rating: 1 )
by emystar on
Wednesday, 11th August 2004 @ 02:16:28 AM AEST
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a Message)
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Thought provoking.
Huggs, luv,
emy |
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Re: Poets are like Hands, Helpful
(User Rating: 1 )
by Former_Member on
Wednesday, 11th August 2004 @ 11:17:50 AM AEST
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a Message)
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| when is an obsession ****up enough to be called love??? |
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Re: Poets are like Hands, Helpful
(User Rating: 1 )
by reilt on
Tuesday, 17th August 2004 @ 03:28:24 PM AEST
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a Message)
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| i don't quite understand it but i do appreciate how wonderfully written it is. well done ina...you always always impress me and leave me breathless in sheer awe of the words you write. you are a wonderful and unique talent. |
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