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jodequa [userpic]
Sharon Olds request...
by jodequa (jodequa)
at March 20th, 2005 (10:08 pm)

I'm not sure if this is the right way to go about this, but I am dying for the text of the Sharon Olds poem the ends (something along the lines of):
...in the choice between love and language
I choose love and language.

It's something about how she would use words during sex, but then broke up with her boyfriend.

Thanks so much, even if you just know the title--although full text would be incredible!

by onehundredways (onehundredways)
at February 12th, 2005 (02:37 am)

epic simile
-elizabeth arnold


Just as planets move
in relation to each other

through the dark,

the air between them
too thin to survive

yet tensed against their pulling,

or continents of night
revolving,

joinable, if ever,

by frail tunnels disappearing into
multiplying folds of space;

so we move, rooms

or inches from each other
as if hope of light were over.

by onehundredways (onehundredways)
at February 12th, 2005 (02:30 am)

as if the voices in the background when my mother calls
-wesley mcnair


Late at night have just started
partying.

As if when she calls in the morning
they have stayed up
to be with her
all night.

As if what I say makes them erupt
into laughter and applause.

As if when she uses
the first name of the news anchor
he is someone we both know.

As if they sit with her
in chairs not already
occupied with newspapers. As if

they hadn't noticed the pathways
through her living room
are only wide enough for one.

As if in the moment
before she hung up
forgetting to leave a message
the voices

left their own message.
As if when she

is no longer there they
will go on
without her.

by leah (leahhansen)
at February 2nd, 2005 (10:51 pm)

One Petition Lofted into the Ginkos


For the train-wrecked, the puck-struck,
the viciously punched,
the pole-vaulter whose pole
snapped in ascent.
For his asphalt-face,
his capped-off scream, God bless
his dad in the stands.
For the living dog in the median
car-struck and shuddering
on crumpled haunches, eyes
large as plates, seeing nothing, but looking,
looking. For the blessed pigeon
who threw herself from the cliff
after plucking out her feathers
just to feel what it's like to fall. For
the poisoned, scalded, and gassed, the bayoneted,
the bit and blind-sided,
asthmatic veteran
who just before his first date in years and years
swallowed his own glass eye. For these and all
and all the drunk,

Imagine a handful of quarters chucked up at sunset,

lofted into the ginkgos--
and there, at apogee,
while the whole ringing wad
pauses, pink-lit,
about to seed the penny-colored earth
with an hour's wages--
As shining, ringing, brief, and cheap
as a prayer should be--

Imagine it all falling

into some dark machine
brimming with nurses,
nutrices ex machina--

and they blustering out
with juices and gauze, peaches and brushes,
to patch such dents and wounds.




-Gabriel Gudding

Katie Lynn [userpic]
The Sounds of Poetry
by Katie Lynn (kate_price)
at January 26th, 2005 (02:00 pm)
good

current mood: good

I thought some of you might be interested in this if you don't already know about it.
http://www.writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/featurd-authrs.html

半 [userpic]
by 半 (hijinks_ensue)
at January 22nd, 2005 (01:56 am)

LAST SERVICE
Ron Rash




Though cranes and bulldozers came,
yanked free marble and creek stones
like loose teeth, and then shovels
unearthed coffins and Christ’s
stained glass face no longer paned
windows but like the steeple,
piano, bell, and hymnals
followed that rolling graveyard
over the quick-dying streams,
the soon obsolete bridges —
they still congregated there,
wading then crossing in boats
those last Sunday nights, their farms
already lost in the lake,
nothing but that brief island
left of their world as they lit
the church with candles and sang
from memory deep as water
old hymns of resurrection
before leaving that high ground
where the dead had once risen.





from Raising the Dead



i like this because it deals with the history of the area where i grew up. there is a lake nearby that was quite a popular place to go when i was younger, and, apparently, to make it, they flooded the entire town -- kind of creepy but also very cool and fascinating. also, i think the religious tones of the poem are very interesting and unique to the southeast.

by onehundredways (onehundredways)
at December 29th, 2004 (09:37 am)

you're growing up
and rain sort of remains
on the branches of a tree
that will someday rule the earth.

and that's good
that there's rain
it clears the month
of your sorry rainbow expressions

and clears the street
of the silent armies

so we can dance


-jim carroll, a little ode on st. anne's day

Girl in Monochrome [userpic]
kim addonizio, also from what is this thing called love
by Girl in Monochrome (macularholes)
at December 8th, 2004 (02:46 am)

HUMAN NATURE

When I hear of how he kept one girl alive
after disposing of the friend and mother,
and about the next one he found

and killed and cut apart,
I try to imagine him hooking his fingers
through the plastic rings of a six-pack,

lifting a nozzle from its cradle
to gas up a truck, flicking
the dead end of a cigarette into the weeds,

and I don't want him to be human--
shaking water from a comb,
jiggling the handle of a toilet, fishing

for a quarter to drop into the slot
of a meter. I want him tentacled
and eyeless, like some

creature from a star so far away
it's not charted anywhere, its light
stopping short of earth.

I want him to be a shapeless
lump of matter that is not
our matter, not carbon-based,

maybe I don't even want him
to be alive--silicon, circuity,
inert mass of material. Then

he'd be no more capable of evil
than a rock or stick--rock brought down
hard on a skull, stick whittled

to a fine point and tipped with poison--
there still would be someone,
a god to work the levers, to set him

in motion. Better not to think
of a god like that, better to believe
there's nothing; nothing, and the human.

Girl in Monochrome [userpic]
kim addonizio, from "what is this thing called love"
by Girl in Monochrome (macularholes)
at December 8th, 2004 (02:27 am)

YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT LOVE IS

but you know how to raise it in me
like a dead girl winched up from a river. How to
wash off the slduge, the stench of our past.
How to start clean. This love even sits up
and blinks; amazed, she takes a few shaky steps.
Any day now she'll try to eat solid food. She'll want
to get into a fast car, one low to the ground, and drive
to some cinderblock shithole in the desert
where she can drink and get sick and then
dance in nothing but her underwear. You know
where she's headed, you know she'll wake up
with an ache she can't locate and no money
and a terrible thirst. So to hell
with your warm hands sliding inside my shirt
and your tongue down my throat
like an oxygen tube. Cover me
in black plastic. Let the mourners through.

半 [userpic]
two of my favorites
by 半 (hijinks_ensue)
at December 7th, 2004 (10:33 pm)

Coming down the stairs
Coming down the stairs
She paused midway
And turned
And assembled the railing
Which thereupon went upstairs
Leaving her slowly alone

He never knew
He never knew what was the matter with him
Until one night
He chopped up his bed for firewood

It was comfortable that way

And then another night a year later
It came roaring up the street at him

As a sunset.

- Witter Bynner, from 12 Santa Fe Poems


i don't want to take up too much space here, but i have the others from the set if anyone's interested. they have a special meaning to me, and i'd love to share them.

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