harborshore (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
harborshore) wrote2010-01-09 08:08 pm
harborshore) wrote2010-01-09 08:08 pm
Entry tags:
God Says Yes To Me
This poem--I don't believe in god, but there's something about it that just makes me feel like dancing.
God Says Yes To Me
Kaylin Haught
I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don't paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I'm telling you is
Yes Yes Yes
Do you have a poem or a quote or a song that makes you happy? Feel free to post it in the comments, lovelings. ♥
God Says Yes To Me
Kaylin Haught
I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don't paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I'm telling you is
Yes Yes Yes
Do you have a poem or a quote or a song that makes you happy? Feel free to post it in the comments, lovelings. ♥
enormous poetry geek, hi
Charles Wright
Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.
Moon-fingers lay down their same routine
On the side deck and the threshold, the white keys and the black keys.
Bird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.
I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean.
And the wind says “What?” to me.
And the castor beans, with their little earrings of death, say “What?” to me.
And the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark.
And the gears notch and the engines wheel.
Re: enormous poetry geek, hi
Bitcherel
Eleanor Brown
You ask what I think of your new acquisition;
and since we are now to be 'friends',
I'll strive to the full to cement my position
with honesty. Dear - it depends.
It depends upon taste, which must not be disputed;
for which of us does understand
why some like their furnishings pallid and muted,
their cookery wholesome, but bland?
There isn't a law that a face should have features,
it's just that they generally do;
God couldn't give colour to all of his creatures,
and only gave wit to a few;
I'm sure she has qualities, much underrated,
that compensate amply for this,
along with a charm that is so understated
it's easy for people to miss.
And if there are some who choose clothing to flatter
what beauties they think they possess,
when what's underneath has no shape, does it matter
if there is no shape to the dress?
It's not that I think she is boring, precisely,
that isn't the word I would choose;
I know there are men who like girls who talk nicely
and always wear sensible shoes.
It's not that I think she is vapid and silly;
it's not that her voice makes me wince;
but - chilli con carne without any chilli
is only a plateful of mince...
(Poetry makes me SO HAPPY.)
Re: enormous poetry geek, hi
Re: enormous poetry geek, hi
Re: enormous poetry geek, hi
And this is gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous. The second stanza in particular:
I want to be bruised by God.
I want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.
I want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed.
I want to be entered and picked clean.
It reminds me of one of my favorite poets, Finnish-Swedish Edith Södergran. Assertive and exhilarating, if that makes sense.
Re: enormous poetry geek, hi
Re: enormous poetry geek, hi
no subject
Shel Silverstein
I will not play at tug o' war.
I'd rather play at hug o' war,
Where everyone hugs
Instead of tugs,
Where everyone giggles
And rolls on the rug,
Where everyone kisses,
And everyone grins,
And everyone cuddles,
And everyone wins.
no subject
no subject
(Hi, I hope you don't mind me adding you! I suck at coming out of lurker mode and saying hello. /o\)
no subject
And I never mind being friended! I'm glad you said hello. ♥ Stick around, I do friend back, I just have this weird thing about doing so right away when I haven't interacted with someone before. I am New To This LJ Thing, as it were (ten months new, but still).
no subject
no subject
outing myself as a huge nerd...
IN CONCLUSION: OMG THE WORLD IS SO FLIPPIN' COOL, CAN YOU EVEN STAND IT. A;SLDKFJA.
Also, thank you for sharing that poem, I am in love with it. *dances*
Re: outing myself as a huge nerd...
Also, yes yes, this: from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved. I remember having an argument with my freshman year roommate about science and religion, and she said, "But isn't it degrading, being related to apes?" And I said, thinking, oh, honey, "We came from stardust. How is that not amazing enough?"
Re: outing myself as a huge nerd...
Re: outing myself as a huge nerd...
no subject
Harry Martinsson
Nu går solen knappast ned
bländar bara med sitt sken
skymningsbård blir gryningstimme
varken tidig eller sen
Insjön håller kvällen ljus
Glidande på vattenspegeln
Eller vacklande på vågor
Som långt innan de har mörknat
Spegla morgonsolens lågor
Juninatt blir aldrig av
Liknar mest en daggig dag
Slöjlikt lyfter sig dess skymning
Och bärs bort på ljusa hav
no subject
Anacreon II. Drinking
Abraham Cowley (1618-1667)
The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again.
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair.
The sea itself, which one would think
Should have but little need of drink,
Drinks ten thousand rivers up,
So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy sun (and one would guess
By's drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and when h'as done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun.
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in Nature's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses there, for why
Should every creature drink but I,
Why, man of morals, tell me why?
(no subject)
no subject
Stjärnorna
Edith Södergran
När natten kommer
står jag på trappan och lyssnar,
stjärnorna svärma i trädgården
och jag står ute i mörkret.
Hör, en stjärna föll med en klang!
Gå icke ut i gräset med bara fötter;
min trädgård är full av skärvor.
(no subject)
no subject
This is not a subtle choice, but it has never not made me smile:
The Island
A. A. Milne
If I had a ship,
I’d sail my ship,
I’d sail my ship
Through Eastern seas;
Down to the beach where the slow waves thunder –
The green curls over and the white falls under –
Boom! Boom! Boom!
On the sun-bright sand.
Then I’d leave my ship and I’d land,
And climb the steep white sand,
And climb to the trees,
The six dark trees,
The coco-nut trees on the cliff’s green crown –
Hands and knees
To the coco-nut trees,
Face to the cliff as the stones patter down,
Up, up, up, staggering, stumbling,
Round the corner where the rock is crumbling,
Round this shoulder,
Over this boulder,
Up to the top where the six trees stand…
And there would I rest, and lie,
My chin in my hands, and gaze
At the dazzle of sand below,
And the green waves curling slow,
And the grey-blue distant haze
Where the sea goes up to the sky…
And I’d say to myself as I looked so lazily down at the sea:
‘There’s nobody else in the world, and the world was made for me.’
no subject
And there would I rest, and lie,
My chin in my hands, and gaze
At the dazzle of sand below,
And the green waves curling slow,
And the grey-blue distant haze
Where the sea goes up to the sky…
And I’d say to myself as I looked so lazily down at the sea:
‘There’s nobody else in the world, and the world was made for me.’
Perfect.
no subject
I got back into poetry a couple of years ago and there is very little else that makes me so happy as to find another That Poem. Here is one that I am particularly fond of, that makes its way onto my profile with tremendous regularity :) The second verse in particular makes me sigh so, so very much.
Tim A [with a circle thing on top of the A, but my keyboard fails /o\]
Don Ammons
Poetry can be dangerous, depth and
direction unknown, full of
undertow and truth, muddied by
a past further up current.
But here I am wading out with
cupped hands, chasing flashes of sun-
light, trying to capture bubbles, look-
ing for a rainbow I can write down.
no subject
no subject
Louise Gluck
Then I looked down and saw
the world I was entering, that would be my home.
And I turned to my companion, and I said Where are we?
And he replied Nirvana.
And I said again But the light will give us no peace.
!!!
no subject
THOMASINA: I will wait for you to come.
SEPTIMUS: I cannot.
THOMASINA: You may.
SEPTIMUS: I may not.
THOMASINA: You must.
SEPTIMUS: I will not.
She puts the candlestick and the essay on the table.
THOMASINA: Then I will not go. Once more, for my birthday.
-- Arcadia, by Tom Stoppard
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
no subject
(no subject)
no subject
by Leonard Cohen
Come down to my room
I was thinking about you
and I made a pass at myself
LOL I LOVE HIM SO MUCH
no subject
no subject
COURAGE
It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.
Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.
Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.
Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you'll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.
..Anne Sexton..
Emily Dickinson and Elvis Presley in Heaven
They call each other `E.' Elvis picks
wildflowers near the river and brings
them to Emily. She explains half-rhymes to him.
In heaven Emily wears her hair long, sports
Levis and western blouses with rhinestones.
Elvis is lean again, wears baggy trousers
and T-shirts, a letterman's jacket from Tupelo High.
They take long walks and often hold hands.
She prefers they remain just friends. Forever.
Emily's poems now contain naugahyde, Cadillacs,
Electricity, jets, TV, Little Richard and Richard
Nixon. The rock-a-billy rhythm makes her smile.
Elvis likes himself with style. This afternoon
he will play guitar and sing 'I Taste A Liquor
Never Brewed' to the tune of 'Love Me Tender.'
Emily will clap and harmonize. Alone
in their cabins later, they'll listen to the river
and nap. They will not think of Amherst
or Las Vegas. They know why God made them
roommates. It's because America
was their hometown. It's because
God is a thing without
feathers. It's because
God wears blue suede shoes.
...Hans Ostrom...
no subject
(no subject)
no subject
When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me,
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick up the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Ore only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We will have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old and start to wear purple.
Julia Kasdorf, "What I Learned from My Mother"
I learned from my mother how to love
the living, to have plenty of vases on hand
in case you have to rush to the hospital with peonies cut from the lawn,
black ants still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars
large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole grieving household,
to cube home-canned pears and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins
and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point.
I learned to attend the viewing even if I didn't know the deceased,
to press the moist hands of the living, to look in their eyes
and offer sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.
I learned that whatever we say means nothing,
what anyone will remember is that we came.
I learned to believe I had the power to ease awful pains materially like an angel.
Like a doctor, I learned to create
from another's suffering my own usefulness,
and once you know how to do this, you can never refuse.
To every house you enter, you must offer
healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself, the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch.
Nicole Walker, 'Love Poem'
In Persian, there are 89 words for love.
I would be happy just to remember one.
Keeps me up at night, memorizing
your name.
Elizabeth Coatsworth, "On A Night of Snow"
Cat, if you go outdoors, you must walk in the snow.
You will come back with little white shoes on your feet,
little white shoes of snow that have heels of sleet.
Stay by the fire, my Cat. Lie still, do not go.
See how the flames are leaping and hissing low,
I will bring you a saucer of milk like a marguerite,
so white and so smooth, so spherical and so sweet -
stay with me, Cat. Outdoors the wild winds blow.
Outdoors the wild winds blow, Mistress, and dark is the night,
strange voices cry in the trees, intoning strange lore,
and more than cats move, lit by our eyes green light,
on silent feet where the meadow grasses hang hoar -
Mistress, there are portents abroad of magic and might,
and things that are yet to be done. Open the door!
no subject
and things that are yet to be done. Open the door!
That right there is one of the best reasons for daring to walk into the unknown (whatever your own unknown may be) that I have ever read. I love all of these, actually, but that one in particular struck me.
no subject
no subject
OKAY LAST ONE.
Re: OKAY LAST ONE.
(no subject)
(no subject)
no subject
so, from a collection of poems on first love junior high style:
First Touch
Halfway through the movie
at the most boring part
you slowly reach up
and sort of backwards
to rub my left shoulder
and keep on rubbing it
until the movie screen
becomes a bright blur.
"Shoulder," I think
all the way home
feeling it tingle
feeling it glow:
"I have a shoulder."
-Ralph Fletcher
no subject
PS. If there was ever a good random entry to jump in on, this one is it, right?