self as the moon


Favorite poem I can think of in the moment. Fuck you, ITS CHRISTMAS, BY THE WAY! (and I came out to my rents.. haha, my dad wont talk to me! Im excited!)
God, I miss seeing the scuttle of Wojo le chauve in the halls. AAAAgh.


Other Lives And Dimensions And Finally A Love Poem
Bob Hicok

My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think

praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what's happening,

it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of Old Battersea Bridge.
I like the idea of different

theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook

of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,

your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb

but couldn't hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother's belly
she had to scream out.

Here, when I say I never want to be without you,
somewhere else I am saying
I never want to be without you again. And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet,

in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.
  • Current Music
    These Arms Are Snakes, Gadget Arms
self as the moon

The Club shall not die.

Anne Sexton. For those of you who don't know, she is good. This poem is so sad, it makes me bitter. :/ The last two lines esp. make me want to cry, but I refuse the tears absolutely.

For my Lover, Returning to his Wife

She is all there.
She was melted down carefully for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.

She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.

Let's face it, I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.

She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,

has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter's wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,

done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.

She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.

I give you back your heart.
I give you permission--

for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound--
for the burying of her small red wound alive--

for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother's knee, for the stockings,
for the garter belt, for the call--

the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.

She is so naked and singular.
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.

As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.
  • Current Music
    I'm at my mom's office... She's on the phone...
self as the moon

freak freak freakkk


The slow moon draws
The shadows through the leaves.
The change it weaves
Eludes design or pause.

And here we wait
In moon a little space,
And face to face
We know the hour grows late.

We turn from sleep
And hold our breath a while,
As mile on mile
The terror drifts more deep.

So we must part
In ruin utterly-
Invades the crumbling heart.

We scarce shall weep
For what no change retrieves.
The moon and leaves
Shift here and there toward sleep.

-by Yvor Winters
  • Current Music
    Jadakiss, Why?
self as the moon

Failing at most of my attempts...

I was just thinking of 10th grade English and how much that class changed my mind for the better, and of course I was drawn into thoughts of Sappho, and set off to research her a little more... I learn in snipets, always. Anyway, there was one fragment/poem that I read in that class that I remembered and set out to find, and what do you know? I found it. Two different translations of it, actually. I'm sure there are more. But still, all of this makes me angry and I actually am crying because in my mind I complain constantly at reading French poetry and seeing the discrepancies in the translations and the originals and it disgusts me, and here I am sobbing over Greek words when I wouldn't be able to comprehend the originals at all. So where is Wojo with his Greek-love?? These two translations could be SO WRONG, but they do run with what I remember... even though, what I remember was just something my teacher gave me, entirely English. UGH!

Some regard cavalry and footmen
More lovely than anything existing
on the blackened earth
others ships of war, but I say it is
whatever you love.

Each and all can see it simply:
Helen herself, more beautiful
by far than all, fled the
greatest of heroes, (her husband)
Deserted him she did and forgot
daughter and parents too when
soon she fared to Troy by sea:
so deeply was she changed by Cypris...

Suddenly remembering Anaktoria, though
already she is far.

Her gentle steps and brilliant radiance
form and face surrounding
I preferred
to Lydian infantry
and dully gleaming wagons"


Oh God, but you need this one too:

To me he seems like a god
as he sits facing you and
hears you near as you speak
softly and luagh

in a sweet echo that jolts
the heart in my ribs. For now
as I look at you my voice
is mpty and

can say nothing as my toungue
cracks and slender fire is quick
under my skin. My eyes are dead to light, my ears
pound, and sweat pours over me.
I convulse, greener than grass
and feel my mind slip as I
go close to death,

yet, being poor, must suffer

Sappho, friends. Haha, I am crying. Whatta fool. Where is Wojo? Do you think he would help the Greek-quest? Heh.
  • Current Music
    Shai Hulud, Given Flight By Demon's Wings

lyrics are doable, no?

I may have been gazing out too late at night
I see a deeper window into my eyes
Every day they screech outside my window,
The crashing cars never seem to collide

Sometimes when I'm staring out my window
To catch the stars, I watch as they go by
I've been getting messages from outer space
They expire light in the window in the sky
There goes my mind

If we dare walk onto my window
I could hear them if I open my eyes

Sometimes flashing lights seem soulful in the window
You may have seen them circle me at night
I keep sending signals into outer space
They expire by your window in the sky
There goes my mind

Every day when restlessness takes over me
I can't see it as I'm closing my eyes
I keep sending signals into outer space
They expire light in the window in the sky

Sometimes when I'm staring out my window
To catch the stars, I watch as they go by
I've been getting messages from outer space
They expire light in the window in the sky

By your window in the sky

"Deeper into Movies"~Yo la Tengo

I love the words. And the song in general. :)
  • Current Mood
    weird weird
self as the moon

To come around.

the lesson of the moth
Don Marquis

i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense

plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with the routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does that matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be a part of beauty
for one instant and then cease to
exist than to exist forever
and never be a part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before i could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went and immolated himself on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity

but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself
  • Current Music
    Wilco, Spiders (Kidsmoke)
self as the moon

Nervous Wreck.

I have found myself liking this man. Levertov and Roethke, that is much of my obsessions lately. And lots of lots of nerves, bouncing nerves. I thought today was Tuesday until Allie took me out of my house. I need poems. I need to read poems. Who wants to throw a poem reading party?? You bring the drinks, I'll bring the fun... or I'll bring the flan, if you're Craig.

In a Dark Time
Theodore Roethke

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood--
A lord of nature weeping to a tree,
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,
That place among the rocks--is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is--
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark,dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
  • Current Music
    Bright Eyes, Drunk Kid Catholic
self as the moon

"A word after a word after a word is power."

I read this in 10th grade, it was in our literature text book. I remember liking it, and there it was--sitting so lightly in this poetry community I read from daily and I only had to read the title and it all reminded me of something better.

The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter

While my hair was still cut straight across my forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.

At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousand times, I never looked back.

At fifteen I stopped scowling.
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?

At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-yen, by the river of swirling eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.
You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-Sa.

-Rihaku (8th century A.D.)
translated by Ezra Pound (in Cathay, 1915)
  • Current Music
    Bright Eyes, Method Acting