Tag: poetry

The Empty Glass

bananapeppers:

I asked for much; I received much.

I asked for much; I received little, I received

next to nothing.

And between? A few umbrellas opened indoors.

A pair of shoes by mistake on the kitchen table.

O wrong, wrong—it was my nature. I was

hard-hearted, remote. I was

selfish, rigid to the point of tyranny.

But I was always that person, even in early childhood.

Small, dark-haired, dreaded by the other children.

I never changed. Inside the glass, the abstract

tide of fortune turned

from high to low overnight.

Was it the sea? Responding, maybe,

to celestial force? To be safe,

I prayed. I tried to be a better person.

Soon it seemed to me that what began as terror

and matured into moral narcissism

might have become in fact

actual human growth. Maybe

this is what my friends meant, taking my hand,

telling me they understood

the abuse, the incredible shit I accepted,

implying (so I once thought) I was a little sick

to give so much for so little.

Whereas they meant I was good (clasping my hand intensely)—

a good friend and person, not a creature of pathos.

I was not pathetic! I was writ large,

like a queen or a saint.

Well, it all makes for interesting conjecture.

And it occurs to me that what is crucial is to believe

in effort, to believe some good will come of simply trying,

a good completely untainted by the corrupt initiating impulse

to persuade or seduce—

What are we without this?

Whirling in the dark universe,

alone, afraid, unable to influence fate—

What do we have really?

Sad tricks with ladders and shoes,

tricks with salt, impurely motivated recurring

attempts to build character.

What do we have to appease the great forces?

And I think in the end this was the question

that destroyed Agamemnon, there on the beach,

the Greek ships at the ready, the sea

invisible beyond the serene harbor, the future

lethal, unstable: he was a fool, thinking

it could be controlled. He should have said

I have nothing, I am at your mercy.

Louise Glück

I like Rosh Hashonah late,
when the leaves are half burnt
umber and scarlet, when sunset
marks the horizon with slow fire
and the black silhouettes
of migrating birds perch
on the wires davening.

I like Rosh Hashonah late
when all living are counting
their days toward death
or sleep or the putting by
of what will sustain them—
when the cold whose tendrils
translucent as a jellyfish

and with a hidden sting
just brush our faces
at twilight. The threat
of frost, a premonition
a warning, a whisper
whose words we cannot
yet decipher but will.

I repent better in the waning
season when the blood
runs swiftly and all creatures
look keenly about them
for quickening danger.
Then I study the rockface
of my life, its granite pitted

and pocked and pickaxed
eroded, discolored by sun
and wind and rain—
my rock emerging
from the veil of greenery
to be mapped, to be
examined, to be judged.

Marge Piercy

(via yidquotes)

Still Life with Spurious Picturesque

fypoetry:

priorwaltering:

unopenablebox:

ecstasis:

The thought insists upon itself. The dead
body of it, what you have put together:

The hillside won’t make sense.
You run through the trees, but the trees
lead nowhere.

Didn’t the sky come down on you like.
Didn’t you think you saw.

The irrational forest,
your stupid mouth,
a breath stillborn.

Define: Lake.
Ink stain. The cold, cold water.
The heart’s slow beat.

There is no imagining anymore. You awake
and everything is flatter. You go outside
and there is nothing to see.

Camille Rankine

Like most nouns, I love horses
from a theoretical distance. Up close, they terrify me.
My thoughts turn fleshy. My friend’s horse ripped
her hair from her scalp as a girl, thinking it hay.
Like a wheel crushing a foot, who could blame
the horse for having no depth of metaphor,
only an automatic sense of knowing what it wants.
My friend wore her bald spot all over her face.

Natalie Eilbert, “With Her,” published in Muzzle (via agooduniverse)

Autobiographia Literaria

sashayed:

When I was a child
I played by myself in a
corner of the schoolyard
all alone.

I hated dolls and I
hated games, animals were
not friendly and birds
flew away.

If anyone was looking
for me I hid behind a
tree and cried out “I am
an orphan.”

And here I am, the
center of all beauty!
writing these poems!
Imagine!

Frank O’Hara, from Collected Poems, 1971

Write a poem about the dream I had where you compared me to Vriska.

I stacked the cups before me on
the desk. Echoing notes
came off the layered terraces,
struck out of curves of stone

that arched themselves for miles. And through
one door, water had filled
itself into the room, which now
could not be opened up.

And out the other it had changed:
when I walked through, a stair
turned back on itself, catching at
my feet. Instead, a round

field grew, circled with seats and lights
and, in the center, two
opposing sets of standing poles.
That is: a cricket ground.

But we were stacking cups; at least,
I did. You stared at me
and frowned. And crossed your arms. And tried
to speak, the way one does

in dreams: more as intent than sound.
“Do you think if I tried
to live more in myself, and less
in waiting misery—”

So it went on; I gave advice
less lofty than my work.
Til all at once you stood, and said,
in hot, reproachful tones:

“Before I read Homestuck, I thought
Vriska must be so nice
and kind, and also helpful, and
a joy to everyone

who met her— all because you said
we’re exactly the same!”
The wickets creaked. Inside, the room
set places for the game.