E, A, and C are dapper poetical compatriots. This blog is the result of two years of poetical adventure and a challenge to write a poem for each day.
"Abortion is Genocide" on Campus, Today (1/30)
above your brightred-
-backpack. Grinning you
are dwarfed in a swarm
protest. You, wearing your
smile, an excuse and explanation
for accused genocide. Smiling sun-beam
among a dust-cloud of
(C) is doing a thirty-day poetry bonanza for NatPoeMo! Follow him!
Also, (E) is doing beauitful poems for Lent! Follow her!
People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that is holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life.
A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then leave.
A soul mates purpose is to shake you up, tear apart your ego a little bit, show you your obstacles and addictions, break your heart open so new light can get in, make you so desperate and out of control that you have to transform your life, then introduce you to your spiritual master… Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love (via observando)
C-Sestina for Arachne
Set like clockwork toys to run,
we made a mess of weather-beaten footsteps
whose interlocking paths wove
two terrible tarnished tapestries.
You were always rushing somewhere to
get something somehow more important
than threads were once the most “important”.
We used to be threaded. Used to run
and rove with cries erupting from our porcelain lips. To
collapse in fields was heavenly. To count the footsteps
of your other lovers. Those traceless former tapestries
always gripped me with a tight-bound jealousy. Weave
me into something worthwhile. Weave
a shard of jewelry, there. Between us. How important
that you should be a goddess-taunting tapestry?
A braggart with the talent to back it. Haven’t spiders always run
at the sight of you? Haven’t monstrous footsteps
echoed away into forgiving darkness because you told them to?
Tell me again how you used to
swoon at the sight of silk. And I think you must be woven
out of the very gold you weave. I swoon at the sound of your footsteps.
How they pad tenderly down the corridors. Each. Beat. Im-por-tant.
Because it brings you closer. Athena urges you to run,
yet resist, unless it’s to my arms. I am torn tapestry.
Travesty of travesties when she tugs your tapestries
off the wall. The goddess in you alive enough to
bend you into submission. Now your loom’s running
frightful images into our silk. Each stitch you weave
inflames her. You always missed what was most important.
Never missed the silk in my retreating footsteps.
Now become a spider that shies away from me. My giants’ footsteps
could break your titanium tapestry
with one light step. How power corrupts! I never wished to be so important.
Now our clocks are overworked, their work gone, too.
Will you weave
us a meager ending to this tale? Or at least run
out the time of our tapestries? At least run,
sprint, struggle, with your few remaining footsteps. Weave
us into sky-arching giants. The greedy gods will flee because you told them to.
love is more thicker than forget
more thinner than recall
more seldom than a wave is wet
more frequent than to fail
it is most mad and moonly
and less it shall unbe
than all the sea which only
is deeper than the sea
love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive
it is most sane and sunly
and more it cannot die
than all the sky which only
is higher than the sky
Funny that the man whose name sprouted
"platonic" has such a golden ideal of love.
I hear his words caterwauling against my skull
whenever my heart skips a beat
you see we were made with
one head and two faces
our hearts beating in codependent unison
we were immortal in our convalescent coalition
until Jove heft his bolts and cleft us in twain
had us sewn up without our other halves
until we were
just dandelion seeds
on the wind, blown, scattered, strewn, in our pain
So when my eyes alight on your eyes
and I know that they are squinched with a smile
and a thought of our redolent reminiscences
I think I see a resemblance there
to my own soul
or should I say our soul?
And I know that we are not quite
magnetic enough to be two halves
of an ecstatic whole
two continental plates drifting together and not apart
but without those distinctive interlocking landmasses
like 1:10000 scale puzzle pieces wrinkled by charging seas
but you darling
(today alight with a laugh meant
not for me but falling upon my ears
in delight regardless)
remind me for a few stolen moments
of the same capricious kisses
that must drift from
the lips (across vast
of the other half
of my soul
A #15 - blanking out
blanking out under blankets
in the broken night with jagged edges
i am remembering the last drops of your
emotions as you bid me
farewell? good morning? i dont know. there is a faint
sadness to all of this and i am terrified of it
existing and knowing about it sometimes i would choose
blissiful ignorance over the impossibility of real feeling
and that it what is rending me to pieces come
back so i can hold you properly this time when i know
that is something i have to do i am awake and remembering
and it hurts so i sleep and can we cling to the bed together
our boat in the buffetting night and we can maybe hold
each other too for a while at least until we feel less desperate
and at least until we feel less anxious about the
encroaching of age and the uncertainty of time—
or perhaps the certainty as it plods so steadily on
and we want moments to be irregular up and down up
and we don’t want the surety that we will fade away
that we will slowly slowly blank out
—Is where space ends called death or infinity?
Pablo Neruda, The Book of Questions
A mere eyelid’s distance between you and me.
It took us a long time to discover the number zero.
John’s brother is afraid to go outside.
He claims he knows
the meaning of zero.
I want to kiss you.
A mathematician once told me you can add infinity
There is a zero vector, which starts and ends
at the same place, its force
and movement impossible
to record with
rays or maps or words.
It intersects yet runs parallel
with all others.
A young man I know
wants me to prove
the zero vector exists.
I tell him I can’t,
but nothing in my world
makes sense without it.
My tent disgusted me, so I slept in the grass. The grass disgusted me,
so I slept in my body, which I strung like a hammock from two ropes.
My body disgusted me, so I carved myself out of it.
My use of knives disgusted me because it was an act of violence.
My weakness disgusted me because “Hannah” means “hammer.”
The meaning of my name disgusted me because I’d rather be known
as beautiful. My vanity disgusted me because I am a scholar.
My scholarship disgusted me because knowledge is empty.
My emptiness disgusted me because I wanted to be whole.
My wholeness would have disgusted me because to be whole
is to be smug. Still, I tried to understand wholeness
as the inclusiveness of all activities: I walked out into the yard,
trying to vomit and drink milk simultaneously. I tried to sleep
while smoking a cigar. I have enough regrets to crack all the plumbing.
I’m whole only in that I’ve built my person from every thought I’ve ever loved. Leisure, Hannah, Does Not Agree with You (2) by Hannah Gamble