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Literature Text
not the words themselves, but how
they wind around each other
like grapevines along a chain-link fence.
I know how it's done: the curt, argus-eyed
hellos to passersby, the courtesy questions
over the phone to keep the conversation
moving, like turning the page of a bad book.
I understand practicality. I understand
the emollient coos, infant-speech;
the harsh backhand bark against
your acerbity; the weeping tongue.
As does the world--even a child
can shed his natural-born cruelty
for a moment of understanding, the precursor
of compassion that can build men.
But it is this I have forgotten:
its ascension not unlike a god,
how to ease them together
into such an immaculateness that one word,
one feather removed would mean
the hard, dark earth, or the cold, bitter slap
of the sea. It is a sort of death
that goes quietly, a third-world death.
To think I had something amidst my grip,
that I could reach into the good light
of each morning, my footfalls
avoiding the crow-footed cracks
of the sidewalk, and down to the neighbor's
fenced off yard, snag an eye-sized grape,
and know its sweet juice would inspire.
they wind around each other
like grapevines along a chain-link fence.
I know how it's done: the curt, argus-eyed
hellos to passersby, the courtesy questions
over the phone to keep the conversation
moving, like turning the page of a bad book.
I understand practicality. I understand
the emollient coos, infant-speech;
the harsh backhand bark against
your acerbity; the weeping tongue.
As does the world--even a child
can shed his natural-born cruelty
for a moment of understanding, the precursor
of compassion that can build men.
But it is this I have forgotten:
its ascension not unlike a god,
how to ease them together
into such an immaculateness that one word,
one feather removed would mean
the hard, dark earth, or the cold, bitter slap
of the sea. It is a sort of death
that goes quietly, a third-world death.
To think I had something amidst my grip,
that I could reach into the good light
of each morning, my footfalls
avoiding the crow-footed cracks
of the sidewalk, and down to the neighbor's
fenced off yard, snag an eye-sized grape,
and know its sweet juice would inspire.
Literature
the dreaming trees
Trees do dream;
while deeply embedded in their winter sleep.
Heartbeat slow, sapblood thick.
Roots beneath the frozen ground
reach and meet, creating a secret,
intricate connection
so that every tree becomes as one, dreaming close.
Gnarled branches rustle, seeming almost to sigh
with pleasure
as within they dream of budding leaves,
and the nests their limbs will support.
They ache for the return of the
birds; their liquid trills
filling the glades with a welcome cacophony.
They dream in the chill dusk, of the time ahead,
when the harsh winds of winter will begin again to soften;
giving way to the caressing breezes of spring.
Literature
thyroidal cartilage
i held a bird between my hands,
swallow's throat twitching in laryngeal spasms.
when i whispered gently,
lips millimeters from its ear,
'you are mine; there is nothing you can do'
it struggled, beak clicking like talon-fingernails on porcelain
i didn't mean to let it free, i swear.
it beat me back with a single shining look;
beaded gaze bruising, breaking capillaries and
bringing blood to the surface.
i would have gotten a black eye if i wasn't careful.
i wasn't.
careful, i mean. i was never careful.
with mirrored eyes i watched it fly,
wings beating in time to my heart.
my breath was a cloud of smoke,
droplets condensing
Literature
forget
forget love.
the ways of being the molecular lightning
the sheerness of the universe.
the hand-prints
left everywhere.
forget love--
the pure stunts of the body
somewhere above the invisible stunts of ourselves.
forget winter
& everywhere else love is possible.
its weightlessness
its cloudy material
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Comments41
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I really enjoyed this poem, but I do agree with a few of *Yvning's comments regarding the second stanza. You lost me in some of the lines, particularly that "a third-world death." That line has several different connotations to my mind and none of them are made clear in the poem.
Also, I think that I'd use a semi-colon or possibly a dash instead of a comma between the second and third lines of the second stanza. Your comma use is actually quite heavy throughout this poem and I'd go through and trim out or change some of them where you think it possible.
I am most thoroughly impressed with the last four lines of the first stanza though. That idea will stay with me for a long time, and I think it may be one of the most profound things I've read from you yet.
Also, I think that I'd use a semi-colon or possibly a dash instead of a comma between the second and third lines of the second stanza. Your comma use is actually quite heavy throughout this poem and I'd go through and trim out or change some of them where you think it possible.
I am most thoroughly impressed with the last four lines of the first stanza though. That idea will stay with me for a long time, and I think it may be one of the most profound things I've read from you yet.