Morgaine

Posts Tagged ‘poetry’

Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes

In Too lazy to assign a category on March 21, 2007 at 9:14 pm

Making Love Last Night

In Too lazy to assign a category on March 19, 2007 at 12:48 pm

Making Love Last night

Making love last night,
light as lace
soft as skin,
slow as the passing of the moon.

First comes being here,
exactly here.
All the rest follows,
intentionless as a dream.

Do I dream these touches
delicate as snow
bending the hairs on my back?
Lips and tongues brush
weightless as ghost sheets.
Attentions touch
so electric we both startle.
How long have I searched
for someone who would share
the delicacy of complete attention,
pinpoints of touch totally given,
totally received?

Face to face across the mirror
we dance slower than I have ever moved before
staying exactly together
from first touch
      to night
           to morning
                to noon.
We wait for one touch to be done
before even imagining the next.
We bleed into each other.
We drink each other
drop by drop,
miss nothing along the way.
Everything I give in my touch you receive,
and your fingers answer with all of you.
A bubble of light
balances on our tongues
      our fingertips
tracing filigree trails crisscross
over shoulders and hips.
There is no coming or going,
only being here
      totally alive,
      totally aware.

The road of the night shatters
into steppingstone instants.
Two pebbles, we jump
into the still blue water.

© Copyright 2005 by David Steinberg. All rights reserved.

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Sonnets To Orpheus

In Too lazy to assign a category on March 17, 2007 at 10:05 pm

Be ahead of all parting, as if it were
behind you, like the winter you just weathered.
Because among the winters there is one so endless winter,
that, overwintering it, your heart recovers altogether.

Be always dead in Eurydice – rise up singing,
rise up praising, once again concerned with purer matters.
Be here, among the dwindling, in the realm of leaning,
be a ringing glass, that in sounding swiftly shatters.

Be – but still know non-being's conditions,
the infinite foundation of your innermost vibration,
so you fulfill it fully in this only time around.

To all the used-up, silent stale provisions
of abundant nature, the unsayable summation,
count yourself in joyously and cancel out the count.

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The Laughing Heart

In Too lazy to assign a category on March 12, 2007 at 11:14 pm

The Laughing Heart

bat wink uploaded this image to flickr, click the image and follow the link to the original page

Update: I found a video on Youtube, where Bono and Tom Waits recite Bukowski:

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Write an Ode

In Too lazy to assign a category on March 6, 2007 at 10:26 pm
clipped from www.poetryfeast.com

An ode poem usually has no set meter, though it will have a rhyming pattern. Odes usually extoll the virtues of an individual, often after their death, however take a look at some of the ode poems by Pablo Neruda.

The ode has traditionally been seen as a form associated with ideas – love, joy etc. Neruda has turned this idea around, creating odes based around everyday objects that are under appreciated.

This can be a novel new way to write if you are searching for inspiration for your next poem. Your ode can be about anything – try and find a mundane object and view it a new light. Appreciate it’s underappreciated qualities and try and see what these could mean.

For example, ‘ode to the knife’ would be expected to be a very dark poem, but you could try and find other angles from which to view this. A knife is also a very useful everyday tool.

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To an Iraqi infant

In Too lazy to assign a category on March 3, 2007 at 11:59 pm

To an Iraqi infant

do you know
that your mother's nipples
are dry bones?
that her breasts
are bursting
with depleted uranium?

do you know
that the womb's window
overlooks
a confiscated land?

do you know
that your tomorrow
has no tomorrow?
that your blood
is the ink
of new maps?

do you know
that your mother is weaving
the slowness of her moments
into an elegy?
And she is already
mourning ou?

don't be shy!
your funeral is over
the tears are dry
everyone's gone

come forward!
it's only a short way
don't be late
your grave is looking
at its watch!

don't be afraid!
We'll arrange your bones
which ever way you want
and leave your skull
like a flower
on top

come forward!
your many friends await
there are more every day
. . .
your ghosts
will play together

come on!

Sinan Antoon
New York, December 2002
Translated from the Iraqi by the poet

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Letting go

In Too lazy to assign a category on March 3, 2007 at 8:20 pm

Letting go

:R.e.a.s.o.n: uploaded this image to flickr, click the image and follow the link to the original page

When you hold
something dear
my dear
you hear
and you feel
a resonance
deep in
your marrow
a connection
to a very particular
moment
or simply a hand that
touched the object
and imbued
it with spirit
a bit of life
that takes a tiny spot
in your soul
that is kept
under magnetic lock
and makes it available
to you when life
increases the need
to reconnect with solace

Poem Copyright
©2005 Frederick D. Perry, All Rights Reserved

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Spiderwoman speaks

In Too lazy to assign a category on February 28, 2007 at 8:25 pm

It used to be quiet around here. Peaceful. Oceanic.

That was in the long ago time.
We were all one, then.
Not a matter of belief. A fact.

You could see the Web, plain as day,
spread out across the land.
Nothing frayed, nothing torn.

Just me, and all my Relations.
Weaving the shimmering, beautiful web.
Each shining strand connected to each shining,
lightwoven strand.
All one.

Maybe it began with one little fray,
one little link that broke in some insignificant place.

Crevices opened. Cracks.

It doesn't matter what you call me. I've had a lot of names.

These are my children. Some of them got lost along the way.

Too many are forgotten, buried by the years.
Some have returned, some are beating like hail on the roof,
some are voices howling like coyote in the wilderness,
some are your own ghosts wandering through your sleep.

They want to come Home.
The Web needs mending.

As found here.

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Girl’s Lament

In Too lazy to assign a category on February 28, 2007 at 8:21 pm

Girl's Lament

In the years when we were
all children, this inclining
to be alone so much was gentle;
others' time passed fighting,
and one had one's faction,
one's near, one's far-off place,
a path, an animal, a picture.

And I still imagined, that life
would always keep providing
for one to dwell on things within,
Am I within myself not in what's greatest?
Shall what's mine no longer soothe
and understand me as a child?

Suddenly I'm as if cast out,
and this solitude surrounds me
as something vast and unbounded,
when my feeling, standing on the hills
of my breasts, cries out for wings
or for an end.

(Translated by Edward Snow)

Rainer Maria Rilke

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Diamanda Galas

In Too lazy to assign a category on February 27, 2007 at 8:41 pm

Listen to L'Héautontimouroménos (The Self-Tormenter ) by Diamanda Galas (mp3 file)

taken from:

FleursDuMal.org

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