Mess of Poems
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Kid in the park
Langston Hughes
Lonely little question mark
on a bench in the park:
See the people passing by?
See the airplanes in the sky?
See the birds
flying home
before dark?
Home's just around
the corner
there -
but not really
anywhere.
on a bench in the park:
See the people passing by?
See the airplanes in the sky?
See the birds
flying home
before dark?
Home's just around
the corner
there -
but not really
anywhere.
****
A Life
BY EDITH SÖDERGRAN
TRANSLATED FROM THE SWEDISH BY AVERILL CURDY
Read the translator's notes
That the stars are adamant
everyone understands--
but I won’t give up seeking joy on each blue wave
or peace below every gray stone.
If happiness never comes, what is a life?
A lily withers in the sand
and if its nature has failed? The tide
washes the beach at night.
What is the fly looking for on the spider’s web?
What does a dayfly make of its hours?
(Two wings creased over a hollow body.)
Black will never turn to white--
yet the perfume of our struggle lingers
as each morning fresh flowers
spring up from hell.
The day will come
when the earth is emptied, the skies collapse
and all goes still--
when nothing remains but the dayfly
folded in a leaf.
But no one knows it.
*****
Get Drunk
By Charles Baudelaire
Always be drunk.
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"
That's it!
The great imperative!
In order not to feel
Time's horrid fardel
bruise your shoulders,
grinding you into the earth,
Get drunk and stay that way.
On what?
On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever.
But get drunk.
And if you sometimes happen to wake up
on the porches of a palace,
in the green grass of a ditch,
in the dismal loneliness of your own room,
your drunkenness gone or disappearing,
ask the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock,
ask everything that flees,
everything that groans
or rolls
or sings,
everything that speaks,
ask what time it is;
and the wind,
the wave,
the star,
the bird,
the clock
will answer you:
"Time to get drunk!
Don't be martyred slaves of Time,
Get drunk!
Stay drunk!
On wine, virtue, poetry, whatever!"
****
Fire and Ice
By Robert Frost
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
*****
Dreams
by Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
****
RESIGNATION
Nikki Giovanni
I love you
because the Earth turns around the sun
because the North wind blows north
sometimes
because the Pope is Catholic
and most Rabbis Jewish
because winters flow into springs
and the air clears after a storm
because only my love for you
despite the charms or gravity
keeps me from falling off this Earth
into another dimension
I love you
because it is the natural order of things
I love you
like the habit I picked up in college
of sleeping through lectures
or saying I’m sorry
when I get stopped for speeding
because I drink a glass of water
in the morning
and chain-smoke cigarettes
all through the day
because I take my coffee Black
and my milk with chocolate
because you keep my feet warm
though my life a mess
I love you
because I don’t want it
any other way
I am helpless
in my love for you
It makes me so happy
to hear you call my name
I am amazed you can resist
locking me in an echo chamber
where your voice reverberates
through the four walls
sending me into spasmatic ecstasy
I love you
because it’s been so good
for so long
that if I didn’t love you
I’d have to be born again
and that is not a theological statement
I am pitiful in my love for you
The Dells tell me Love
is so simple
the thought though of you
sends indescribably delicious multitudinous
thrills throughout and through-in my body
I love you
because no two snow flakes are alike
and it is possible
if you stand tippy-toe
to walk between the raindrops
I love you
because I am afraid of the dark
and can’t sleep in the light
because I rub my eyes
when I wake up in the morning
and find you there
because you with all your magic powers were
determined that
I should love you
because there was nothing for you but that
I would love you
I love you
because you made me
want to love you
more than I love my privacy
my freedom my commitments
and responsibilities
I love you ‘cause I changed my life
to love you
because you saw me one Friday
afternoon and decided that I would
love you
I love you I love you I love you
because the Earth turns around the sun
because the North wind blows north
sometimes
because the Pope is Catholic
and most Rabbis Jewish
because winters flow into springs
and the air clears after a storm
because only my love for you
despite the charms or gravity
keeps me from falling off this Earth
into another dimension
I love you
because it is the natural order of things
I love you
like the habit I picked up in college
of sleeping through lectures
or saying I’m sorry
when I get stopped for speeding
because I drink a glass of water
in the morning
and chain-smoke cigarettes
all through the day
because I take my coffee Black
and my milk with chocolate
because you keep my feet warm
though my life a mess
I love you
because I don’t want it
any other way
I am helpless
in my love for you
It makes me so happy
to hear you call my name
I am amazed you can resist
locking me in an echo chamber
where your voice reverberates
through the four walls
sending me into spasmatic ecstasy
I love you
because it’s been so good
for so long
that if I didn’t love you
I’d have to be born again
and that is not a theological statement
I am pitiful in my love for you
The Dells tell me Love
is so simple
the thought though of you
sends indescribably delicious multitudinous
thrills throughout and through-in my body
I love you
because no two snow flakes are alike
and it is possible
if you stand tippy-toe
to walk between the raindrops
I love you
because I am afraid of the dark
and can’t sleep in the light
because I rub my eyes
when I wake up in the morning
and find you there
because you with all your magic powers were
determined that
I should love you
because there was nothing for you but that
I would love you
I love you
because you made me
want to love you
more than I love my privacy
my freedom my commitments
and responsibilities
I love you ‘cause I changed my life
to love you
because you saw me one Friday
afternoon and decided that I would
love you
I love you I love you I love you
***
Envoy
BY LISA ROBERTSON
I have tried to say
that, although Love is not judgement
analysis too is a style
of affect
since the scale that rends me vulnerable
has cut, from abundance, doubt
(not that identity shunts
civic ratio or consequence) Sure --
I would prefer to respond to only
the established charms (and forget inconvenience)
but her hair was also a kind of honey
or instrument.
All that is beautiful, from which I choose
even artifice, which I hold above nature
won’t salve these stuttered accoutrements
that, although Love is not judgement
analysis too is a style
of affect
since the scale that rends me vulnerable
has cut, from abundance, doubt
(not that identity shunts
civic ratio or consequence) Sure --
I would prefer to respond to only
the established charms (and forget inconvenience)
but her hair was also a kind of honey
or instrument.
All that is beautiful, from which I choose
even artifice, which I hold above nature
won’t salve these stuttered accoutrements
****
Aphrodisia
BY RICHARD HOFFMAN
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered,
sibilant similes and promises sotto voce.
It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard,
the form and content clash, create this weird
distortion like an echo or a tape delay.
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered.
On which do you place emphasis: The words?
Or the breath? The farfetched or the foreplay?
It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard
when objectivity has disappeared
and your lover is getting further carried away.
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered
vows? It’s hard to take him at his word,
or hers: Speak up! Proclaim! you want to say.
It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard,
hard to admit one sharp as you is stirred.
You need to back off, cool down, act blasé.
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered.
It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard.
sibilant similes and promises sotto voce.
It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard,
the form and content clash, create this weird
distortion like an echo or a tape delay.
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered.
On which do you place emphasis: The words?
Or the breath? The farfetched or the foreplay?
It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard
when objectivity has disappeared
and your lover is getting further carried away.
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered
vows? It’s hard to take him at his word,
or hers: Speak up! Proclaim! you want to say.
It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard,
hard to admit one sharp as you is stirred.
You need to back off, cool down, act blasé.
Love’s language is hyperbole, but whispered.
It’s easy to imagine you’ve misheard.
****
Alone And Drinking Under The Moon
By Li Po
Amongst the flowers I
am alone with my pot of wine
drinking by myself; then lifting
my cup I asked the moon
to drink with me, its reflection
and mine in the wine cup, just
the three of us; then I sigh
for the moon cannot drink,
and my shadow goes emptily along
with me never saying a word;
with no other friends here, I can
but use these two for company;
in the time of happiness, I
too must be happy with all
around me; I sit and sing
and it is as if the moon
accompanies me; then if I
dance, it is my shadow that
dances along with me; while
still not drunk, I am glad
to make the moon and my shadow
into friends, but then when
I have drunk too much, we
all part; yet these are
friends I can always count on
these who have no emotion
whatsoever; I hope that one day
we three will meet again,
deep in the Milky Way.
am alone with my pot of wine
drinking by myself; then lifting
my cup I asked the moon
to drink with me, its reflection
and mine in the wine cup, just
the three of us; then I sigh
for the moon cannot drink,
and my shadow goes emptily along
with me never saying a word;
with no other friends here, I can
but use these two for company;
in the time of happiness, I
too must be happy with all
around me; I sit and sing
and it is as if the moon
accompanies me; then if I
dance, it is my shadow that
dances along with me; while
still not drunk, I am glad
to make the moon and my shadow
into friends, but then when
I have drunk too much, we
all part; yet these are
friends I can always count on
these who have no emotion
whatsoever; I hope that one day
we three will meet again,
deep in the Milky Way.
****
A Blind Fisherman
BY STANLEY MOSS
I teach my friend, a fisherman gone blind, to cast
true left, right or center and how far
between lily pads and the fallen cedar.
Darkness is precious, how long will darkness last?
Our bait, worms, have no professors, they live
in darkness, can be taught fear of light.
Cut into threes even sixes they live
separate lives, recoil from light.
He tells me, “I am seldom blind
when I dream, morning is anthracite,
I play blind man’s bluff,
I cannot find myself,
my shoe, the sink,
tell time, but that’s spilled milk and ink,
the lost and found I cannot find.
I can tell the difference between a mollusk and a whelk,
a grieving liar and a lemon rind.”
Laughing, he says, “I still hope the worm will turn,
pink, land, and warm, dined
out on apples of good fortune.
Books have a faintly legible smell.
Divorced from the sun, I am a kind
of bachelor henpecked by the night.
Sometimes I use my darkness well--
in the overcast and sunlight of my mind.
I can still wink, sing, my eyes are songs.”
Darkness is precious, how long will darkness last?
He could not fish, he could not walk, he fell
in his own feces. He wept. He died where he fell.
The power of beauty to right all wrongs
is hard for me to sell.
true left, right or center and how far
between lily pads and the fallen cedar.
Darkness is precious, how long will darkness last?
Our bait, worms, have no professors, they live
in darkness, can be taught fear of light.
Cut into threes even sixes they live
separate lives, recoil from light.
He tells me, “I am seldom blind
when I dream, morning is anthracite,
I play blind man’s bluff,
I cannot find myself,
my shoe, the sink,
tell time, but that’s spilled milk and ink,
the lost and found I cannot find.
I can tell the difference between a mollusk and a whelk,
a grieving liar and a lemon rind.”
Laughing, he says, “I still hope the worm will turn,
pink, land, and warm, dined
out on apples of good fortune.
Books have a faintly legible smell.
Divorced from the sun, I am a kind
of bachelor henpecked by the night.
Sometimes I use my darkness well--
in the overcast and sunlight of my mind.
I can still wink, sing, my eyes are songs.”
Darkness is precious, how long will darkness last?
He could not fish, he could not walk, he fell
in his own feces. He wept. He died where he fell.
The power of beauty to right all wrongs
is hard for me to sell.
***
How Much?
BY CARL SANDBURG
How much do you love me, a million bushels?
Oh, a lot more than that, Oh, a lot more.
And tomorrow maybe only half a bushel?
Tomorrow maybe not even a half a bushel.
And is this your heart arithmetic?
This is the way the wind measures the weather.
*****
I Loved You
Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
I loved you, and I probably still do,
And for a while the feeling may remain...
But let my love no longer trouble you,
I do not wish to cause you any pain.
I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew,
The jealousy, the shyness - though in vain -
Made up a love so tender and so true
As may God grant you to be loved again.
And for a while the feeling may remain...
But let my love no longer trouble you,
I do not wish to cause you any pain.
I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew,
The jealousy, the shyness - though in vain -
Made up a love so tender and so true
As may God grant you to be loved again.
*****
The Quiet World
Jeffrey McDaniel
In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.
When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.
Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.
When she doesn't respond,
I know she's used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.
****
Raw With Love
Charles Bukowski
little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
I won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won't blame you,
instead
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won't use it
yet.
*****
Confession
BY KENN NESBITT
I have a brief confession
that I would like to make.
If I dont get it off my chest
I'm sure my heart will break.
I didn't do my reading.
I watched TV instead--
while munching cookies, cakes, and chips
and cinnamon raisin bread.
I didn't wash the dishes.
I didn't clean the mess.
Now there are roaches eating crumbs--
a million, more or less.
I didn't turn the TV off.
I didn't shut the light.
Just think of all the energy
I wasted through the night.
I feel so very guilty.
I did a lousy job.
I hope my students don't find out
that I am such a slob.
that I would like to make.
If I dont get it off my chest
I'm sure my heart will break.
I didn't do my reading.
I watched TV instead--
while munching cookies, cakes, and chips
and cinnamon raisin bread.
I didn't wash the dishes.
I didn't clean the mess.
Now there are roaches eating crumbs--
a million, more or less.
I didn't turn the TV off.
I didn't shut the light.
Just think of all the energy
I wasted through the night.
I feel so very guilty.
I did a lousy job.
I hope my students don't find out
that I am such a slob.
***
The Rain-bow
BY THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK
The day has pass’d in storms, though not unmix’d
With transitory calm. The western clouds,
Dissolving slow, unveil the glorious sun,
Majestic in decline. The wat’ry east
Glows with the many-tinted arch of Heav’n.
We hail it as a pledge that brighter skies
Shall bless the coming morn. Thus rolls the day,
The short dark day of life; with tempests thus,
And fleeting sun-shine chequer’d. At its close,
When the dread hour draws near, that bursts all ties,
All commerce with the world, Religion pours
Hope’s fairy-colors on the virtuous mind,
And, like the rain-bow on the ev’ning clouds,
Gives the bright promise that a happier dawn
Shall chase the night and silence of the grave.
With transitory calm. The western clouds,
Dissolving slow, unveil the glorious sun,
Majestic in decline. The wat’ry east
Glows with the many-tinted arch of Heav’n.
We hail it as a pledge that brighter skies
Shall bless the coming morn. Thus rolls the day,
The short dark day of life; with tempests thus,
And fleeting sun-shine chequer’d. At its close,
When the dread hour draws near, that bursts all ties,
All commerce with the world, Religion pours
Hope’s fairy-colors on the virtuous mind,
And, like the rain-bow on the ev’ning clouds,
Gives the bright promise that a happier dawn
Shall chase the night and silence of the grave.
***
Always
Pablo Neruda
I am not jealous
of what came before me.
Come with a man
on your shoulders,
come with a hundred men in your hair,
come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet,
come like a river
full of drowned men
which flows down to the wild sea,
to the eternal surf, to Time!
Bring them all
to where I am waiting for you;
we shall always be alone,
we shall always be you and I
alone on earth,
to start our life!
of what came before me.
Come with a man
on your shoulders,
come with a hundred men in your hair,
come with a thousand men between your breasts and your feet,
come like a river
full of drowned men
which flows down to the wild sea,
to the eternal surf, to Time!
Bring them all
to where I am waiting for you;
we shall always be alone,
we shall always be you and I
alone on earth,
to start our life!
****
My Mother’s Closet
BY KATE BUCKLEY
I had a fascination with your dresses — the greens, brocades,
the belted shapes which spoke of you more poignantly
than the photos in their careful frames.
Your shoes were their own country, the heels, satins,
the inexplicable mud — I scraped them with small fingernails,
marveling at the gorgeous debris, wishing I had a microscope.
I searched your handbags, examined them for signs,
evidence — where you were going, where you had been:
tickets, lipstick, inked hieroglyphics, a broken comb.
I even smelled your stockings, sniffing at the crotches
like a dog, frantic for any trace of you, my eyes raking
their length, wondering at ladders, searching for clues.
My father came upon me once, cross-legged on the floor,
his sad smile telling me more than any detection --
he took my hand, and closed the door.
**
Harvest of Death
BY JOHN SPAULDING
Raisin-black blood dries on their faces.
Thick wool clothes.
Lumps of bloated bodies
lying on their backs.
Mouths open. Chins
pointing to the sky.
As though blown over backward.
Or turned.
Fingers swollen.
Boots and rifles missing.
Coats and jackets pulled up
exposing gray shirts, bloody underwear.
The sky drifts toward sap green.
No fences. No stone walls.
Thick wool clothes.
Lumps of bloated bodies
lying on their backs.
Mouths open. Chins
pointing to the sky.
As though blown over backward.
Or turned.
Fingers swollen.
Boots and rifles missing.
Coats and jackets pulled up
exposing gray shirts, bloody underwear.
The sky drifts toward sap green.
No fences. No stone walls.
**
Sudden Light
BY DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI
I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
You have been mine before,--
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow's soar
Your neck turn'd so,
Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.
Has this been thus before?
And shall not thus time's eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death's despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.
You have been mine before,--
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow's soar
Your neck turn'd so,
Some veil did fall,—I knew it all of yore.
Has this been thus before?
And shall not thus time's eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death's despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?
*****
The Greatest Love
BY ANNA SWIR
She is sixty. She lives
the greatest love of her life.
She walks arm-in-arm with her dear one,
her hair streams in the wind.
Her dear one says:
“You have hair like pearls.”
Her children say:
“Old fool.”
**
To a Young Lady, Netting
BY THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK
While those bewitching hands combine,
With matchless grace, the silken line,
They also weave, with gentle art,
Those stronger nets that bind the heart.
But soon all earthly things decay:
That net in time must wear away:
E’en Beauty’s silken meshes gay
No lasting hold can take:
But Beauty, Virtue, Sense, combin’d,
(And all these charms in thee are join’d)
Can throw that net upon the mind,
No human art can e’er unbind,
No human pow’r can break.
***
Game
BY LAURA KASISCHKE
I thought we were playing a game
in a forest that day.
I ran as my mother chased me.
But she’d been stung by a bee.
Or bitten by a snake.
She shouted my name, which
even as a child I knew was not
“Stop. Please. I’m dying.”
I ran deeper
into the bright black trees
happily
as she chased me: How
lovely the little bits and pieces.
The fingernails, the teeth. Even
the bombed cathedrals
being built inside of me.
How sweet
the eye socket. The spine. The
curious, distant possibility that God
had given courage
to human beings
that we might
suffer a little longer.
And by the time
I was willing to admit that
all along
all along
I’d known it was no game
I was a grown woman, turning
back, too late.
in a forest that day.
I ran as my mother chased me.
But she’d been stung by a bee.
Or bitten by a snake.
She shouted my name, which
even as a child I knew was not
“Stop. Please. I’m dying.”
I ran deeper
into the bright black trees
happily
as she chased me: How
lovely the little bits and pieces.
The fingernails, the teeth. Even
the bombed cathedrals
being built inside of me.
How sweet
the eye socket. The spine. The
curious, distant possibility that God
had given courage
to human beings
that we might
suffer a little longer.
And by the time
I was willing to admit that
all along
all along
I’d known it was no game
I was a grown woman, turning
back, too late.
***
The Vacation
BY WENDELL BERRY
Once there was a man who filmed his vacation.
He went flying down the river in his boat
with his video camera to his eye, making
a moving picture of the moving river
upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly
toward the end of his vacation. He showed
his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,
preserving it forever: the river, the trees,
the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat
behind which he stood with his camera
preserving his vacation even as he was having it
so that after he had had it he would still
have it. It would be there. With a flick
of a switch, there it would be. But he
would not be in it. He would never be in it.
He went flying down the river in his boat
with his video camera to his eye, making
a moving picture of the moving river
upon which his sleek boat moved swiftly
toward the end of his vacation. He showed
his vacation to his camera, which pictured it,
preserving it forever: the river, the trees,
the sky, the light, the bow of his rushing boat
behind which he stood with his camera
preserving his vacation even as he was having it
so that after he had had it he would still
have it. It would be there. With a flick
of a switch, there it would be. But he
would not be in it. He would never be in it.
*****
Fat Is Not a Fairy Tale
Jane Yolen
I am thinking of a fairy tale,
Cinder Elephant,
Sleeping Tubby,
Snow Weight,
where the princess is not
anorexic, wasp-waisted,
flinging herself down the stairs.
I am thinking of a fairy tale,
Hansel and Great,
Repoundsel,
Bounty and the Beast,
where the beauty
has a pillowed breast,
and fingers plump as sausage.
I am thinking of a fairy tale
that is not yet written,
for a teller not yet born,
for a listener not yet conceived,
for a world not yet won,
where everything round is good:
the sun, wheels, cookies, and the princess.
Cinder Elephant,
Sleeping Tubby,
Snow Weight,
where the princess is not
anorexic, wasp-waisted,
flinging herself down the stairs.
I am thinking of a fairy tale,
Hansel and Great,
Repoundsel,
Bounty and the Beast,
where the beauty
has a pillowed breast,
and fingers plump as sausage.
I am thinking of a fairy tale
that is not yet written,
for a teller not yet born,
for a listener not yet conceived,
for a world not yet won,
where everything round is good:
the sun, wheels, cookies, and the princess.
*****
Strangers Make Me Nervous
Anonymous
Strangers make me nervous.
Even more unnerving are lovers,
especially the ones who have
reached that phase -
an accomplishment to most -
where more is left unsaid
than articulated;
they remind me of little
insects pressed against
a glass window,
usually out of intrigue,
mostly out of boredom.
Even more unnerving are lovers,
especially the ones who have
reached that phase -
an accomplishment to most -
where more is left unsaid
than articulated;
they remind me of little
insects pressed against
a glass window,
usually out of intrigue,
mostly out of boredom.
*****
Ballad
Sonia Sanchez
forgive me if i laugh
you are so sure of love
you are so young
and i too old to learn of love.
the rain exploding in
the air is love
the grass excreting her
green wax is love
and stones remembering
past steps is love,
but you. you are too young for love
and i too old.
once. what does it matter
when or who, i knew
of love.
i fixed my body
under his and went
to sleep in love
all trace of me was
wiped away
forgive me if i smile
young heiress of a naked dream
you are so young
and i too old to learn of love.
you are so sure of love
you are so young
and i too old to learn of love.
the rain exploding in
the air is love
the grass excreting her
green wax is love
and stones remembering
past steps is love,
but you. you are too young for love
and i too old.
once. what does it matter
when or who, i knew
of love.
i fixed my body
under his and went
to sleep in love
all trace of me was
wiped away
forgive me if i smile
young heiress of a naked dream
you are so young
and i too old to learn of love.