The Woman Hanging From The Thirteenth Floor Window -- Joy Harjo

She is the woman hanging from the 13th floor
window. Her hands are pressed white against the
concrete moulding of the tenement building. She
hangs from the 13th floor window in east Chicago,
with a swirl of birds over her head. They could
be a halo, or a storm of glass waiting to crush her.

She thinks she will be set free.

The woman hanging... )

Ohio, M. Loncar

besides spilling the better half, as well as the steamier half,
of mcdonald's best try at a cup of coffee on my crotch,
the ride out of ohio passed without incident
rae333: Slyvia Plath - Lady Lazarus (I do it so it feels like hell) (Default)
[personal profile] rae3332012-02-11 09:40 pm

Lucille Clifton - it was a dream

it was a dream
Lucille Clifton
in which my greater self
rose up before me
accusing me of my life
with her extra finger
whirling in a gyre of rage
at what my days had come to.
i pleaded with her, could i do,
oh what could i have done?
and she twisted her wild hair
and sparked her wild eyes
and screamed as long as
i could hear her
This. This. This.

Stop All the Clocks, Cut off the Telephone - WH Auden

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

- W. H. Auden
rae333: love affair (love affair)
[personal profile] rae3332012-01-30 05:59 pm
Entry tags:

Khaled Mattawa - Lovers: (Jaafar the Winged)

Lovers: (Jaafar the Winged)
Khaled Mattawa

Heroic acts are their own rewards, otherwise
why do them? Now the huris come and go.
You can ask them for whatever you want here,
a girl who never loved you, a whore in Khyber
you’d heard about, but your faith denied.

Years later when she came before the prophet
declaring her allegiance, you could not stop
your erection. Those Ethiopian beauties
of the Najashi harem. Boys of all ages,
I had had enough of them when I asked for my first wife

whom they’d had to drag from some deep pit
in Jehenem. The angel said I can have her here,
and she’d still burn there at the same time.
It was like the old days between us, but I wasn’t sure
it was her. She was charmed by my wings.

“It’s true what they said about you then,”
she chuckled, having found something else
to laugh at me for. I told her my version of the story:
the famous battle—we were such a small army
before the Byzantines gathered against us.

I held the prophet’s banner in my left, fighting
with my right arm which soon got lopped off.
Then I held the banner with my left and tried
to stop the bleeding. Then another horseman
chopped off my left. I held the banner with

bleeding stumps and ran toward the rear.
The same horseman chased me and cut off my head.
For a second I faced the sky, then my left eye
settled in the dust. It was such a dance, some game
you’d see played by the clowns in the fair of Ukadz.

History does record everything. Sometimes
it’s the victim’s story that survives.
And my reward was virgins, virgins,
and every time you thrust into one of them
she returns to her virginity, her vagina

tightening up again. No blood, thank God.
When I asked for my wife, I asked that
she not be a virgin. I wanted her like I had her.
She was confused about being let out of hell.
They’d cleaned her, but her eyes were pearled off

as if she had not blinked for years.
And for the first time since my death
I saw sweat, one stream rolling from under
her left ear down the side of her neck
into the top of her chest. Before it slid

between her breasts, I licked it off.
I sniffed her, the smell of burning still lingered
in her armpits. I rested my head on her chest
and remembered my one life before. When I awoke
the angels had come and taken her back.
xtina: Black text pink background: "Couldn't you be NICER about it and less ANGRY and QUIETER and CUDDLIER and more SILENT and" (nice)
[personal profile] xtina2012-01-20 11:00 am

Women, by Alice Duer Miller

(With rather insincere apologies to Mr. Rudyard Kipling.)

I went to ask my government
if they would set me free,
They gave a pardoned crook a vote,
but hadn't one for me;

The men about me laughed and frowned
and said: "Go home, because
We really can't be bothered
when we're busy making laws."

Oh, it's women this, and women that and women have no sense,
But it's pay your taxes promptly when it comes to the expense,
It comes to the expense, my dears, it comes to the expense,
It's pay your taxes promptly when it comes to the expense.

I went into a factory
to earn my daily bread:
Men said: "The home is woman's sphere."
"I have no home," I said.

But when the men all marched to war,
they cried to wife and maid,
"Oh, never mind about the home,
but save the export trade."

For it's women this and women that, and home's the place for you,
But it's patriotic angels when there's outside work to do,
There's outside work to do, my dears, there's outside work to do,
It's patriotic angels when there's outside work to do.

We are not really senseless,
and we are not angels, too,
But very human beings,
human just as much as you.

It's hard upon occasions
to be forceful and sublime
When you're treated as incompetents
three-quarters of the time.

But it's women this and women that, and woman's like a hen,
But it's do the country's work alone, when war takes off the men,

And it's women this and women that and everything you please,
But woman is observant, and be sure that woman sees.

- Women, by Alice Duer Miller

Forgotten Language, Shel Silverstein

Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?
xtina: (Default)
[personal profile] xtina2012-01-05 05:51 pm

"Poppies" by Jennifer Groetz

There is a sadness everywhere present
but impossible to point to, a sadness that hides in the world
and lingers. You look for it because it is everywhere.
When you give up, it haunts your dreams
with black pepper and blood and when you wake
you don’t know where you are.

Read more... )

If, Rudyard Kipling

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; )

Introduction, Shel Silverstein

If you are a dreamer, come in,
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer ...
If you're a pretender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.

Come in! Come in!

[This place seems a little empty... but oh well.]
xtina: Scene of Dr Who/Donna and the Ood, with Led Zeppelin text: "talk and song from tongues of lilting grace" (lace and grace)
[personal profile] xtina2011-03-19 07:12 pm

"If You Forget Me", Pablo Neruda (trans. from Spanish)

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

"If You Forget Me", Pablo Neruda

Original Spanish. )