Strange poems happen at 2am

Leda

Tell me again,
What the wild swan sounds like.
Not that sneaky god,
But the one that loved her
And dreamt of feathers to flesh,
Mouth to laughing beak.
How sad she must have been
That he wasn't really a swan;
With elegant neck,
And blood beating wings,
The gift of flight.
When she found a man,
Spoiled by his own radiance,
No wonder her daughter
Broke the world's heart.
That disappointed beauty,
That secret song.

A little something inpsiring

"The Quality of Light by which we scrutinize our lives has direct bearing upon the product which we live, and upon the changes which we hope to bring about through those lives. It is within this light that we form those ideas by which we pursue our magic and make it realized. This is poetry as illumination, for it is through poetry that we give name to those ideas which are - until the poem - nameless and formless, about to be birthed, but already felt. That distillation of experience from which true poetry springs births thought as dreams, births concepts as feeling, births ideas as knowledge, births (precedes) understanding.
As we learn to bear the intimacy of scrutiny and to flourish within it, as we learn to use the products of that scrutiny for power within our living, those fears which rule our lives and form our silences begin to lose their control over us."

Audre Lorde

Fireflies

I read in the news
That fireflies are diminishing.
On the banks of the Mekhong River
You can barely catch a glimpse of their stars anymore,
Swimming through the breathing night.
There are now so many artificial lights that
They can no longer find each other
And sail onward, signaling frantically.
A hundred ships passing,
Lost in the glare.
Sometimes I just don't bother with putting on lipstick
Before leaving the house these days.


c. 6/3/10

Making Aphrodite, or, A Recipe For Disaster

"poikilothron athamat Aphrodita,pai Dois
doloploke,lissomaise,me m'aisaisi med onaisi damna..."*

The rooms become aquatic,
High heat and holy days,
Scent fills the house;
A wave cresting and cresting.
Fish explore the furniture,
Pearls set up shop in tea cups,
Octopi move into the dishes in the sink.
It all boils together--
Semen and tears,
That dash of blood salted with the doom of Gods;
Leaving us unmade as the beds we depart,
Smelling of oceans,
The sheets turned to shrouds in their bare awkwardness.



*
"Ornately throned deathless Aphrodite,
wile weaving daughter of Zues,
I beg you, don't overcome my spirit
with pain and care..."
Sappho 1


c. 1/23/10

Gang members steal puppy

This was actually the headline in my morning paper today. Wtf. This is like some made up scenario you'd use to describe what some dastardly gang would do in a 1900's caper. Are they The Riverside Puppy Snatchers? Do they stomp and daisies too? And wear big black mustaches that they twirl while chuckling maniacally? Seriously, who steals a puppy? I hope they take good care of it....

Love and the Chicken

Dear Mr. Chagall,
What does the chicken have to do with love?
It is always there,
Peeping slyly from behind the flowers
While the lovers embrace on their golden clouds,
Or carrying them on its broad downy back.
How does it figure into this high-wire flying act
Or the raveling-up of arms
Against the vermilion night?
The goat is there too,
Un-effacing and debonair,
Musical as well,
With a knack for well timed bouquets.
I'm so confused,
Bumping into birds and fish,
The lyric scope of the moon
And the angels, adding to the clutter;
Wondering why everything's so beautiful,
Even chickens,
And two happy strangers,
The world just wrapping its arms around them both.

c. 11/3/09

Huh

Since I named this blog I've been seeing curlicues everywhere. Case in point.