I am not proud of my want,
it is like untied laces
it keeps my eyes downward
making me miss the picture
making me miss the lights align.
the casting stone.
the fumes of newness
right off the coast of redemption.
it makes me miss the smiles,
the quarells I can now have with someone
other than the mirror,
the gush for wind,
the lighting that shakes the skin off
I miss it all because of my want,
the coffee conversation,
the tall jars of man,
the scheming predatory woman,
the shy girl who webs a boy,
the pauper who wins a princess.
I’m too busy looking at my want
looking at what I think my body could
I met with him twice last summer
sneaking away behind shuttered windows
exchanging each other underneath sheets
my petal fell in his hands and I felt
and then again,
we chose panting over bickering
we chose collision over conversation
and it felt purposeful to be there,
a button on his flannel shirt
a knot in his chest
a shiver down his back,
cold blue eyes
freshly shaved chin.
he was my want
creeping up on me
making me miss the world
ride its bicycle by my window frame.
I remember living in Mexico for a year
drowning myself in mariachis and
dancing at the quinceaneras of strangers’
I remember living in the Wing of an old house
in San José
covering myself and feeling like I could
sink in to the sea of lavender sheets
it was like home
yet nothing like it.
like my tree-climbing days in the mountains
like my ranting and roaming in the apple city
it was all the same yet so different
and I could fit in like the feathers in my pillow.
I watched moons and sunsets
and paid no attention to my unkempt hair.
I remember my stay in a ranch in Aldama
it changed me more than anything
it was silent and the sun hit me with a million
I knew nothing about riding horses
or milking cows
I sunk in it, it was serene
a gratifying moments
where distance meant safeness.
I made creases in the dirt
and held myself tightly so as to keep
my bones in my shell.
I remember the lake your father made
out in the back
When the moon set orange and its
light hit the water
I could swear it was one big flame
one big ring of fire.
I remember the cold at night, how
it burnt my skin with goosebumps
how it seeped in through the window cracks
how it rattled the bird cage
I remember the preacher in the old chapel
how is back arched like a weasel
he called me el extranjero from time to
time, but why then did he remind me
so much of my own father? when then
did his seremons touch my soul
and damn near make me want to believe
that there is a reason for all this
I remember saying goodbye
with parts of León still stuck to the bottom
change from Chihuahua stores still ringing
in my pockets,
San José still chiming in my ear.
who would I be without it?who now?
Where I am headed and where I want to end up
are never the same,
no matter how many maps
I draw on my palms
no matter how many people
They never sink,
they never mesh.
But I go.
From her womb to the tips of her
she felt inferior,
but everywhere else she was a
she gave his bones thunder
whenever he swam between her
and yelpt sorrow.
when he shook her knees apart
she owned him
she was in charge
and you could tell by the way she
swayed those legs around,
she knew it.
you could tell.
An exert from the poem:From Song to Myself
I have said that the soul is not more than the body
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul
And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one’s self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his
own funeral drest in his shroud
And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the
And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds
the learning of all times,
And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it
may become a hero,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel’d
And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed
before a million universes
Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four, and each moment
In the faces of men and women I see God, and in my own face in the glass,
I find letters from God dropt in the street, and every one is sign’d by
And I leave them where they are, for I know that wheresoe’er
Others will punctually come for ever and ever.
by Walt Whitman
[ For mothers of young angels.]
On taunting onesies,
Bibs and bows.
Sunk beneath myself.
What now of these carriage bones?
This never tiring silence.
These ogling teething toys.
This roaring pain.
Stars mistaken for rainbows,
Shed of laughter.
I need the other end of this cord.
This is a two-way conversation,
I need the other end of this string.
What will I do with these carriage bones?
This crib blood?
This sinking depth?
This teasing child-cry replaying in my head?
How will it waddle in on new walking feet
And mumble my name
From behind two inchoate teeth?
Hey there folks,
So last night New Mexico State University was honored by a poetry reading by Jon Davis and a story-reading by Camille Acker,it was amazing!! Camille Acker is young and talented, her short stories are so well-written and funny. Jon Davis stole my heart,it was a real treat listening to him perform his pieces. Glad I witnessed that, and may I grow to be even half as good a poet. Good job NMSU!
Anyhoo here is my favorite poem of his from last night’s reading. I hope it captivates you the way it did me. Enjoy.
Preliminary Report from the Committee on Appropriate Postures for the Suffering
by Jon Davis
We who wear clean socks and shoes are tired
of your barefoot complaining, your dusty footprints
on our just-cleaned rugs. Tired, too of your endless ploys—
the feigned amputations, the imaginary children
you huddle with outside the malls, your rags and bottles,
the inconvenient positions you assume. Though we remain
impressed by your emaciation and your hunger and,
frankly, find you photogenic and think your images
both alarming and aesthetically pleasing, to do anything
more than sigh will require a complex process
of application and review, a process that is currently
in the development stage. Meanwhile, may we suggest
you moderate your public suffering at least
until the Committee on Appropriate Postures for the Suffering
is able to produce guidelines. Do not be alarmed.
The committee has asked me to assure you
that they are sensitive both to the aesthetic qualities
of your suffering—the blank stares, the neotonous beauty
as the flesh recedes and the eyes seem to grow larger,
the haloes of flies—and to the physical limitations
of human endurance and the positioning of limbs.
They will, I am certain, ask that you not lift
your naked children like offerings to the gods.
On this topic, discussion has centered around the unfair
advantage such ploys give the parents of such children.
The childless, whether by choice or fate, are left
to wither silently in the doorways while those with children
proffer and gesticulate in the avenues unabated.
This offends our cherished sense of fairness,
the democratic impulse that informs and energizes
our discussions. Therefore, we ask for restraint,
and where restraint is lacking, we will legislate.
Please be forewarned. In addition, the committee
will recommend that the shouting of slogans,
whether directed at governments or deities, be kept
to a minimum. Not only is such shouting displeasing
aesthetically, but it suggests there is something
to be done. Believe me, no one is more acutely aware
of your condition than we who must ignore it everyday
on our way to the capitol. In this matter, we ask only
that you become more aware of your fellow citizens,
who must juggle iPods, blackberries, briefcases
and cell phones, lattes. Who must march steadily
or be trampled by the similarly burdened citizens
immediately behind them. Your shouting and pointing
does not serve you well. Those of us employed
by the agency are sworn to oversee you. If we seem,
as you suggest, to have overlooked you instead,
that is an oversight and will be addressed, I am certain,
in our annual review. Please be aware: To eliminate
your poverty, your hunger, your aesthetically
pleasing, yet disturbing, presence in our doorways,
above our heating grates, in our subway tunnels
and under our freeways would mean the elimination
of the agency itself and quite possibly a decline
in tourism. Those of us employed by the agency
have neither the stamina, persistence, nor the luminous
skin tones that you present to the viewing public.
Finally, to those who would recommend programs,
who would call for funding and action,
I must remind you that we have been charged not
with eliminating your suffering but with managing it.
Luke Matthews is my 100th follower so I decided I reblog “our” favorite poem! Thank you so much!! 🙂
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
This is my absolute favorite poem of all time. You’ve probably heard of it. It’s by English poet William Ernest Henley
Ladies Summer is around the corner, so I have pulled out my secret stash of dresses. I’m such a girly girl sometimes, I am lost without something pretty in my closet. These are my favorite ones so I gave them a photographic moment. A simple short dress can be dressed up or down, it is an amazing tool to have folks. I for one will be wearing dresses around the clock this summer unless I find some shorts that complement my figure well enough.:). (By the way if you are sporting a curvaceous physique like mine I must say that stretchy dresses like the gray one are a godsend, they make your rear look divine!! ). 😉
Hope you are having good weeks,
I promise you all I will put up some poetry soon.:)
Love you all,