Monthly Archives: January 2012

little love poem I wrote in the ugly mug

now and again, the sun falls
on my face

through the window
and I close my eyes,

imagine it is strands of your hair tangled
in my beard

and the wind,
your breath

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Thoughts after reading Darwish’s ‘In the Presence of Absence’

‘In the Presence of Absence’ was Darwish’s last publication. He wrote it while knowing he would die, and he did (on my 20th birthday, August 9, 2008). And it provoked these hypothetical things:

What kind of force would I be able to put on my poems if I wrote them while knowing I was going to die in the not-too-far-future? What would they look like, sound like, feel like?

Would it be the language of resistance? Acceptance? Complacency? Would the fact that I’m dying as I write this cause me to see things differently? To be, actually, open to the possibilities each moment presents?

Would I then be more dedicated to making this world I’ve created with these words and gestures the right world before I leave it?

Would I be able to love, and live, more efficiently? More wholly? Would I be willing to give this whole self to the task? Could I wholly give myself to an Other and no longer fear the end since I know the end of me will come, too, soon?

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In a world that becomes dramatically less romantic through each epoch, each war, even each day, it’s hard to beat the romantic out of me and out of my poems. All I would like, as Henry Rollins said, is someone to tell me ten things I don’t know and make me laugh.

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(Re)writings of Neruda’s ‘Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair’

I forged you from the depth of the sun. Oh the light wraps your white thighs in roses. I am the stone of the night that you occupy though it is more used to my sadness than you are in this hour where your waist of fog and gold topples me in a quick raid so rich I want to say ‘Listen I love you, love me, follow me in the dying deep hours over fields of wheat.’ I have seen clouds travel like white kisses in the pulsing twilight wind. The earth sings through the rivers of your eyes and fruit falls from the sun

 

I have a language full of wars and songs and birds and flowers flee from me this morning is full of your murmur falling with the summer’s wind

 

I am drunk from the grapes of your eyes

 

You were the gray twilight, lunar, burning like summer. I love you when the night gallops near the sea still (come sleep on your belly here sweet and silent and land in my arms of flames), you are the endless rose and long kisses of darkness, and your slender thighs smell like the first star of summer

 

I cast embers of longings across your eyes the world dropped in the wet streets. No one saw us. Here I am saying I am of smoke and solar currents of bitter sounds like I am crazy I can say nothing of the other side of the moon of your kiss but here girl come smoke the blue twilight in the summer of these eyes let’s see how many stars I have lost and burned

 

I like the morning stroking you, turning like a butterfly your eyes seem to unwind the light over me. I will persist hunting the words that begun on your lips

 

I love your body swamped in the night and I want to be the morning star kissing your eyes with happy flowers and rustic baskets of earth

 

I will go through the white hills of your white thighs woman and hope I am as light as water still songs are drowned in dark hazels of your eyes

 

I rise and flash falling in the twilight of your hair and I am smoke signals near the roses in your lap I am the one who sings drunk with honey from your hips, I am the silent night that flutters in your lips, filled with rivers of song and kisses of shadowy longing

 

I am the sea that beats across your eyes and the currents falling in your thighs

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January 11th Sonnet

I cast embers of longings across
your eyes the world dropped
in the wet streets                               Here I am

saying I am of smoke, solar
currents of bitter
sounds                   like I am crazy

      I can say nothing
of the other side
of the moon
of your kiss                but here,
girl, come smoke the blue twilight
of these eyes

let’s see how many stars
I have burned and lost

(constructed from Neruda’s Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair)

 

 

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Sonnet XXXV draft

I like to think in hours instead of days.
What more can I tell you?
I’m a hard hearted old farmer I work very hard
not to let myself go                  I’m speaking
through the imperfect medium
of myself I am lonesome in Milford
filling my little notebooks
with these lines of longing                      I am all I am
comfortable with      lately
I breathe with care
—a little at a time                       I’ve thought
of writing you but I can’t find an adequate form
of expression and I’m still looking for it
—myself has never been myself

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(Re)Writings from Kerouac’s ‘Book of Blues’

I am lonesome in Milford filling my little notebooks with these lines of longing—after 6th chorus of San Francisco Blues

It’s December 20, 2011. I don’t know what time it is. It’s too gray outside and I’m too cold. I come to you with eyes lonelier than the trees. I want to find a home in your heart.—after the 17th

With these blue eyes I wrote give me wine and honey from your hips in gold leaf on a book to better feel the world, to better feel myself—24th

I’ll celebrate you upside down—7th chorus of Desolation Blues

What a beautiful hue you have cast on these poems—21st chorus of Orizaba Blues

I’ll tell you you run through these poems I have named you electricity now that I can’t see you at this moment though I can feel you this moment now it’s January 2, 2012, 11:13 a.m. EST. A snow’s falling and the world looks all white and blue and gray and romantic—27th

We’ll color the castle and then color each other.. overheard conversation

So I dance towards your arms and reach for the peach of your kiss—54th

Your name’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen all morning. O I’ll love you as snow loves rooftops—58th

Maybe Eden ain’t so lonesome as a Michigan winter is I thought while smoking cigarettes and watching the snow fall this morning I woke lonely and sober—10th chorus of Orlanda Blues

And I wish to say farewell to myself—hello, bright, tremendous, wow, you—27th

I’m a hard hearted old farmer—40th

I’m speaking through the imperfect medium of myself

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notebook writing/potential sonnet

I like to think in hours instead of days.
What more can I tell you?
I’m a hard hearted old farmer I work very hard
not to let myself go I’m speaking
through the imperfect medium
of myself I am lonesome in Milford
filling my little notebooks
with these lines of longing I am all I am
comfortable with lately
I breathe with care
—a little at a time I’ve thought
of writing you but I can’t find an adequate form
of expression and I’m still looking for it
—myself has never been myself

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Fourteen Word Sonnet

I
cast
embers
of
longing
across
your
eyes

the
world
dropped
in
wet
streets

 

(an experiment with Neruda’s Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair where I made a list of all words containing only one or two vowels and composed a poem from that last)

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Main Street Sonnet

Each morning I walk down Main Street
and stand by the rocks where the river flows
The sun shines and touches my beard
through the trees

I make believe it is
your hand—(I love this part
I get carried away)—

and I am preparing for the possibility
our embrace extends across the Huron and divides us
at the present the present persists
upon escaping

I mean                        yesterday I was someone else       I’ve had
this problem all my life                                   I should say
what it is I am not saying here

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