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29 December 2011 @ 03:10 pm
i love you much(most beautiful darling)

more than anyone on the earth and i
like you better than everything in the sky

-sunlight and singing welcome your coming

although winter may be everywhere
with such a silence and such a darkness
noone can quite begin to guess

(except my life)the true time of year-

and if what calls itself a world should have
the luck to hear such singing(or glimpse such
sunlight as will leap higher than high
through gayer than gayest someone's heart at your each

nearness)everyone certainly would(my
most beautiful darling)believe in nothing but love

-e.e. cummings, i love you much(most beautiful darling)
28 December 2011 @ 01:49 am
There are, of course, theories
about the wide-eyed, drop-jawed
fascination children have for them,
about how, before he's learned
his own phone number or address,
a five-year-old can carry
like a few small stones
the Latin tonnage of those names,
the prefixes and preferences
for leaf or meat.

My son recites the syllables
I stumble over now,
sets up figures as I did
years ago in his prehistory.
Here is the green ski slope
of a brontosaur's back,
there a triceratops in full
gladiator gear. From the arm
of a chair a pterodactyl
surveys the dark primeval carpet.

Each has disappeared from time
to time, excavated finally
from beneath a cabinet
or the sofa cushions, only
to be buried again among its kind
in the deep toy chest,
the closed lid snug as earth.
The next time they're brought out
to roam the living room
another bone's been found

somewhere, a tooth or fragment
of an eggshell dusted off,
brushing away some long-held notion
about their life-span
or intelligence, warm blood
or cold. On the floor
they face off as if debating
the latest find, what part
of which one of them
has been discovered this time.

Or else they stand abreast
in one long row, side
by scaly side, waiting to fall
like dominoes, my son's
tossed tennis ball a neon yellow
asteroid, his shadow a dark cloud
when he stands, his fervor for them
cooling so slowly he can't feel it—
the speed of glaciers, maybe,
how one age slides into the next.

-James Scruton, The Age of Dinosaurs
27 December 2011 @ 12:02 am
But what is there if not graspingness?
The paramecium slithering toward its bit
of food, the hummingbird frantic
for its sugar fix, the blind child (in the famous
photograph) groping for the bar of

sunlight along the wall. I take a breath
as if to dive and go into the moment
beyond which there is no other. Hold.
And breathe again. Stay. And wonder
then: is this all there is? This complete

self, this splotchy sky, this messy garden
beneath the window, weedy, waterlogged,
the coneflower tangled in tomatoes, passion
plant popping up everywhere, overrunning
everything. And this birdsong, which

for all its beautiful extravagance, is not
all birdsong, is not what’s, say, in the
Amazon or even Wyoming, and don’t I
need to know that, too, to get my fill
and live? Yes: desires are inexhaustible.

I vow to put an end to them, but not right
this minute, or maybe this minute but only
for a minute because I’ve got things to do
and surely this me isn’t all the me there is.
Like Augustine: save me, but not yet.

-Gyorgyi Voros, Vow
25 December 2011 @ 08:36 pm
Will someday split you open
Even if your life is now a cage,

For a divine seed, the crown of destiny,
Is hidden and sown on an ancient fertile plain
You hold the title to.

Love will surely bust you wide open
Into an unfettered, blooming new galaxy

Even if your mind is now
A spoiled mule.

A life giving radiance will come,
The Friend's gratuity will come -

O look again within yourself,
For I know you were once the elegant host
To all the marvels in creation.

From a sacred crevice in your body
A bow rises each night
And shoots your soul into God.

Behold the Beautiful Drunk Singing One
From the lunar vantage point of love.

He is conducting the affairs
Of the whole universe

While throwing wild parties
In a tree house - on a limb
In your heart.

- Hafiz, In a Tree House
25 December 2011 @ 04:05 pm
Tonight, everyone is in love.
Gaze at the face
of the spilling moon
and tell me this is not so.

a child is in love with an arm,
a boy is in love with a car,
a woman's in love with a photo

of a man, of course, in love.
Old stories, true, but
tonight, wet with the fiery moon,
again we can love them.

One hundred striped spiders
are in love
with places in my house
I am afraid to go.

Tonight, a bride
is in love with a groom, a groom
is in love with a bride, a guest
is in love with

the groom's pierced
ear, which is all she knows of him,
and with the way his black jacket moves
to show he is crying.

The cake on the table is
in love
with the knife my mother uses
to bless it.

Tonight, everyone is in love.
Look at the night’s blazing buckle of moon
and try telling
the desperate stars otherwise.

A girl is in love with a book tonight,
and the book is in love
with the swans’ necks of her sweet fingers
along its cracked spine.

Even the ram, its head inclined,
is in love with the thicket
where he waits in
white moonlight burning

for Abraham,
whom he loves.
Tonight, under the spilling moon,
I confess to you:

everyone is in love.

-Jan Bottiglieri, Tonight, Everyone is in Love
24 December 2011 @ 09:38 pm
My father loved gossip and defended it all the time. It’s where the truth always lies, and vice versa, he liked to say. And besides, history and religion are mostly gossip, written by nitwits to cover up important truths. So my father was always rewriting the past, or telling another version of what once was, way back when. Martin Luther, he liked to tell his peacenik Lutheran friends, should be remembered for inciting hatred of the Jews. (It’s true: Luther encouraged the burning of Jewish synagogues, homes and prayer books.) Theologians are always flawed, he would add. Which is why he liked Descartes, who didn’t doubt that he doubted, and concluded, I think therefore I am. Je pense donc je suis. Cogito ergo sum. Like Aristotle, he was sure reason was a gift, as was wonder. Though Descartes, according to my father, kicked dogs. And Aristotle preferred shellfish to women. Like Jesus, Aristotle was probably homosexual. If you actually read the New Testament, which few Christians do, alas, you’d realize how little Jesus liked the ladies. Instead he preferred finding heaven on earth with his twelve men, and was, of course, crucified in the end. The Christ story does make a good parable for the homosexual man.

-Nin Andrews, Gossip or the Parable of the Homosexual Man
24 December 2011 @ 11:12 pm
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example,'The night is shattered
and the blue stars shiver in the distance.'

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me sometimes, and I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another's. She will be another's. Like my kisses before.
Her voide. Her bright body. Her inifinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my sould is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.

- Pablo Neruda, Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines
23 December 2011 @ 03:39 pm
I've got to tell you
how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and I am lonely
thinking of flutes

I miss you always
when I go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although I never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you'd be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and I stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

Last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card I'll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
I beg you do not go

-Frank O'Hara, Morning
23 December 2011 @ 10:19 am
I want a love that is imprecise, one
that sprawls over the bed, spills out windows,
disrupting churchgoers as they stroll
across the green glow of mowed lawns. I want
a love that commandeers the world, a bone-
clanking, hydrant-splashing, dog-
salivating affair. The ravaged and
the ravenous — those lycanthropes of lust.

No candy hearts or delicacies
of language. Do not ask me
to be demure, clean or to go
with the flow. I am electric.
I sprinkle poison
in the bird feeder, watch blue jays
fall like insatiable kisses.

I want fuck and prick
and cunt. Those delicious monosyllables
of want. I want you in a chair
handcuffed and desiring me so badly
even your feet are on fire. I want
love that is black as a highway
on a starless night, black as madness, sable
smooth and impenetrable. I want love
to write a love poem to me
with bad intentions.

Love is my nemesis,
my neurosurgeon, the unruly
child, the car that won't steer
straight, the boy on a skateboard
carving the street
into attraction and repulsion.

I want a love that is contradictory, indelible
and edible, a love that relishes
imperfections and requisitions the moon.
A love that isn't afraid of grief, sadness,
the small crimes we commit
against ourselves; love as cool
as a bruise, sensitive as skin
on eyelids, nipples and ears.

I want a love that listens:
to rain a half mile
before it hits the house; to the feather
brushing sound of morning glories as they close
their petals for rain's arrival; the soft
shuffle of beetles as they begin a slow
crawl across the orchard into the sweet
red bellies of fallen apples.

- Simone Muench, Open Letter to Eros
22 December 2011 @ 08:13 pm
It's better for you
than waterfowl and grows
where nothing else will.

Sky is a translator of small
personal memories.

Pry up frozen sky
for a mental window.

Sky is never a heavy wheel
across your forehead.

It sleeps when nothing else
does, fills a coffin before anything goes in.

Sky wanders
the ballroom when everyone
has gone. My late night
drinking companion, sky makes
bright marbles in the dark.

-Diana Adams, I Eat Sky