Thursday, May 05, 2022
Monday, April 04, 2022
To those left behind..
Stuff the slices down your throat
And choke on a smile
The end bounces off of a black screen
The line thins between the zenith and the abyss
He tells me my pain is only resistance
"Grieve!" he says, my agony does not suffice
Grieve loss upon loss until you are unaware of losses
Now it's their turn to fall from grace
From the stars, from above
And my turn to put them back up
Where they belong
My laughter sobs
And I become, I hope
(Originally posted on Aug. 3, 2004; re-posted on July 24, 2006)
Thursday, March 17, 2022
I’ll be the limbs breaking on the ice,
I’ll be desire melting onto itself,
I’ll be the longing that possesses me
That I’ll never possess.
I’ll be nothing, that’s what I’ll be.
I’ll be the vicious hope that rides me to death,
I’ll be just another breath, another step
(originally posted on December 06, 2004)
Monday, February 07, 2022
When I get back you may be gone
But I don't want to see you before I go
I don't want to see you like this
I don't want to remember you like this
I don't want to remember you
I don't want
I don't care
I don't care to forgive you
I don't care to forgive me
Friday, January 07, 2022
Wednesday, November 17, 2021
(originally posted on May 24, 2017)
Monday, September 06, 2021
A time before you and me
A time before the past was past
A time before the present got past
And then the future, too--
The future went past
And you and I
Lost in the past
In this forgotten city
Blown up by the sea
At the edge of an old dusty world...
A time before my mom, and her mom
A time before my dad forgot the world
And remembered only his sadness
Curled it up like a kitten
Hurled up into his lap
And licked it clean...
Wednesday, September 01, 2021
Friday, July 23, 2021
when it’s all done
and the white foam pours forth
you’ll be telling me
that song we drew when
the grass was freshly mown
was embroidered into
your mother’s skirt.
I will turn
and absorb your face
like it was the last kite of summer
and together we will drip
like old wounds
at the back of the throat.
There will be nothing that night
but the bees that circled our heads
and a sigh that congealed
with a dream.
Sunday, September 20, 2020
when we die and when we forget about it
is where our happiness is pitted;
Because in the intensity of the green
I seek respite from your drenched words and
pretend that your life doesn't trudge along elsewhere;
Because in the middle of the woods you only grunted
when I told you that I love you, and I took that to mean
"Yes, me too, very much," and smiled to myself;
Because the comfort of thinking that this is all there is
is seeping back in, and that the world begins with
my mud-crusted shoes and ends with the jargon in my head;
Because the possibilities of all the faces passing me by
passes along with them, and their beaming eyes bore through me
holes as big and blue as the sky, that they don't even look through;
Because I promised, if given another chance, I would grab on to it
though I don't know what that means; and I made a vow of goodness
to a God I don't believe in--and I wonder if He believes in me.
Saturday, August 15, 2020
Ask me where I have been© Translation: 1974, Ben Belitt
and I’ll tell you: “Things keep on happening.”
I must talk of the rubble that darkens the stones;
of the river’s duration, destroying itself;
I know only the things that the birds have abandoned,
or the sea behind me, or my sorrowing sister.
Why the distinctions of place? Why should day
follow day? Why must the blackness
of nighttime collect in our mouths? Why the dead?
If you question me: where have you come from, I must talk
___with things falling away,
artifacts tart to the taste,
great, cankering beasts, as often as not,
and my own inconsolable heart.
Those who cross over with us are no keepsakes,
nor the yellowing pigeon that sleeps in forgetfulness:
only the face with its tears,
the hands at our throats,
whatever the leafage dissevers:
the dark of an obsolete day,
a day that has tasted the grief in our blood.
Here are the violets, swallows—
all the things that delight us, the delicate tallies
that show in the lengthening train
through which pleasure and transience pass.
Here let us halt, in the teeth of a barrier:
useless to gnaw on the husks that the silence assembles.
For I come without answers:
see: the dying are legion,
legion, the breakwaters breached by the red of the sun,
the headpieces knocking the ship’s side,
the hands closing over their kisses,
and legion the things I would give to oblivion.
From: Pablo Neruda, Five Decades: Poems 1925-1970
Publisher: Grove Press, New York, 1974
Hear this recited at Poetry International Festival Rotterdam, 2004 by Krip Yuso.
Si me preguntáis en dónde he estado
debo decir "Sucede".
Debo de hablar del suelo que oscurecen las piedras,
del río que durando se destruye:
no sé sino las cosas que los pájaros pierden,
el mar dejado atrás, o mi hermana llorando.
Por qué tantas regiones, por qué un día
se junta con un día? Por qué una negra noche
se acumula en la boca? Por qué muertos?
Si me preguntáis de dónde vengo, tengo que conversar con
con utensilios demasiado amargos,
con grandes bestias a menudo podridas
y con mi acongojado corazón.
No son recuerdos los que se han cruzado
ni es la paloma amarillenta que duerme en el olvido,
sino caras con lágrimas,
dedos en la garganta,
y lo que se desploma de las hojas:
la oscuridad de un día transcurrido,
de un día alimentado con nuestra triste sangre.
He aquí violetas, golondrinas,
todo cuanto nos gusta y aparece
en las dulces tarjetas de larga cola
por donde se pasean el tiempo y la dulzura.
Pero no penetremos más allá de esos dientes,
no mordamos las cáscaras que el silencio acumula,
porque no sé qué contestar:
hay tantos muertos,
y tantos malecones que el sol rojo partía,
y tantas cabezas que golpean los buques,
y tantas manos que han encerrado besos,
y tantas cosas que quiero olvidar.
Tuesday, August 04, 2020
like recent habits,
perhaps, or ancient loves.
Feel the world denting under your knees--
bury your face deeper in the pillow,
and let it out.
Listen to the grinding of Fate's stone
chaffing your thighs,
pencil a smirk across your face
and raise it to the light.
The worst is yet to come.
In lawns that knew nothing
but the breeze dabbling in poetry,
a hammock strung
like angels to the skies;
In dusks wrapped in their own perfection,
and beaches slumbering at the lap of forever;
You sat, eyes wide, words few,
absorbing the sand like it's all that is left,
spitting it out variations on the divine.
The horizon blinked under your gaze,
and repeated itself, fumbling and hurried,
waiting for reassurance
at the corners of your mouth.
Plunge it, once more, into darkness
and burn a sigh.
We make alliances of convenience,
greeting smiles with a stare,
showcasing the cleared lots
like something’s there.
But the words dim, and scramble,
and shift direction on the page.
They know, too, like I do,
like the night falls,
they sing it under their breath:
The worst is yet to come.
(To Katyssima, originally posted on September 12, 2006)