I wish you were -40 degree weather
so I'd have known to wrap myself up
in two layers of pants,
one pair of wool socks,
three sweaters and a tuque,
three pairs of mittens,
one of which had no fingers,
leaving only my cheeks exposed to frostbite
and they are pretty hardy for a body part
so useless.
But no, you told me your name was
that of a saint that feared the mother of God,
and so I ran out in my pajamas.
You should have told me you were
where farenheit and celsius met,
kissed,
had a family,
got divorced,
and lived out the rest of their days.

If I could write you a love song,
it wouldn't be very good.
I'm not made for
grand gestures,
I'm not made for majesty.
I think you knew that
when you fell in love with me.

Seriousness

Driving the Garden State Parkway to New York, I pointed out two crows
to a woman who believed crows always travel in threes. And later just
one crow eating the carcass of a squirrel. "The others are nearby," she
said, "hidden in trees." She was sure. Now and then she'd say "See!" and
a clear dark trinity of crows would be standing on the grass. I told her
she was wrong to under- or overestimate crows, and wondered out loud
if three crows together made any evolutionary sense. I was almost get-
ting serious now. Near Forked River, we saw five. "There's three," she
said, "and two others with a friend in a tree." I looked to see if she was
smiling. She wasn't. Or she was. "Men like you," she said, "need it writ-
ten down, notarized, and signed.

Stephen Dunn

The Video

When Laura was born, Ceri watched.
They all gathered around Mum's bed —
Dad and the midwife and Mum's sister
and Ceri. "Move over a bit," Dad said —
he was trying to focus the camcorder
on Mum's legs and the baby's head.

After she had a little sister,
and Mum had gone back to being thin,
and was twice as busy, Ceri played
the video again and again.
She watched Laura come out, and then,
in reverse, she made her go back in.

Fleur Adcock

Modern Rhapsody

I want to write
but the words don't come out,
they seem to get stuck
no matter which way my tongue turns,
left or right.

You see,
I have these stories I want to tell,
stories of great loves and great heroes,
most of them reside in my head.
But the words,
they just don't want to come out.

I'd like to think they're celebrating thanksgiving
inside my little head,
talking with their family
about world politics and the news,
and then Dissonance and Rhyming got into a fight
while Adjective and Noun announced their engagement,
Diction snorted at this moment
and got slapped instantly by Syntax,
no need to be like Hypocrite
(she was a black sheep, it was rumoured).
Whisper ate all the pudding
and didn't leave any for Metaphor,
but he made up for it by igniting the fire,
"like a dewfall", said Simile,
and everyone smiled and put her back
in her crib.
"Past her bedtime," they said.

This is what I imagine when
the words are stuck
and biblical stories get lost among
firing neurons
in my head.

I was so little when you hit me.
So little when you made me
kiss the floor
in humility.
I'd like to think those were lessons of love
but they weren't lovely lessons,
and love you see,
love is what you screwed up for me.

Bukowski and Me

I sat there reading his words
and I felt him speak to me
of his life.
He wouldn't call it much of a life
I would think,
or just life.

He spoke of hell in women
and heaven in them as well,
drinks and rinks,
bars and bartenders
that gave him free booze.
He thought of the homeless as equal,
I bet he'd think they were neither home
nor less,
yet he treated them the same as himself.
I guess some would call that abuse.

If his liver could speak,
the tongues it would use would be heavy
and full of hope.
He loved and lost and kept on loving
in a way that neither you or I could see,
but when he wrote, you knew
he loved it more than you or me.

He was the opposite of Jesus
but who's to say?
When I read his words,
I feel they speak to me,
the way they move along the page
makes me think that I can make them move the same.
His stories become my stories
but all they will ever remain are stories
for I am too conscious, too safe.
And he, he was old man
with a drink and a pen,
and the only thing that binds us
me and him,
is that we keep writing and writing again.

He said he preferred a church
that was bruised, hurting, and dirty.
How did he know he was talking
to me?
Would he still say that knowing
it was me that caused the pollution,
the evolution of the human condition
in the midst of perfect holiness?

What would he say when he saw me,
smudged eyeliner and heart beating
wide open and wonderful
for the devil to tempt and turn and twist
into an instrument of disappointment
and muscle?
Would he recognize me,
the true me from years ago
when the biggest sin was saying
words that I shouldn't have,
and Hail Mary's were definitely said more
shouldn't haves?

I'm sorry, Papa,
that I am the Church that is bruised,
hurting,
dirty.
I'm sorry that is what you have to witness.
I tried to be good
and it didn't work
and now I don't feel less filled with love,
just more filled with guilt.
Do you know when the fat lady is going to sing her song for me?

Regret

There's no use in regret. You can't change anything.
Your mother died unhappy with the way you turned
out. You and your father were not on speaking terms
when he died, and you left your wife for no good
reason. Well, it's past. You may as well regret missing
out on the conquest of Mexico. That would have been
just your kind of thing back when you were eighteen:
a bunch of murderous Spaniards, out to destroy a
culture and get rich. On the other hand, the Aztecs
were no great shakes either. It's hard to know whom
to root for in this situation. The Aztecs thought they
had to sacrifice lots of people to keep the sun coming
up every day. And it worked. The sun rose every day.
But it was backbreaking labor, all that sacrificing.
The priests had to call in the royal family to help,
and their neighbors, the gardener, the cooks.... You
can see how this is going to end. You are going to
have your bloody, beating heart ripped out, but you
are going to have to stand in line, in the hot sun, for
hours, waiting your turn.

Louis Jenkins

Done Deal

You're my done deal,
my Cleopatra,
my Adam,
my Eve.
Yes you're all of them
for you are complete to me.
You're my done deal,
don't you know?
Your smile,
your dimples,
the way your skin
is sensitive right below your waist,
the way your hand caresses my back,
you became a done deal when you kissed me.
So I will drink you in,
your eyes,
your curve
and I will get drunk off of you
and I want you to get drunk with me,
and together let us drink and drink
off each other,
let us play a game of poker,
wish at a crossroads,
go to heaven together.
You see, sweetheart,
you're my done deal,
we were a done deal
as soon as you played the first card,
my ace of hearts.

Permission Granted

You do not have to choose the bruised peach
or misshapen pepper others pass over.
You don't have to bury
your grandmother's keys underneath
her camellia bush as the will states.

You don't need to write a poem about
your grandfather coughing up his lung
into that plastic tube—the machine's wheezing
almost masking the kvetching sisters
in their Brooklyn kitchen.

You can let the crows amaze your son
without your translation of their cries.
You can lie so long under this
summer shower your imprint
will be left when you rise.

You can be stupid and simple as a heifer.
Cook plum and apple turnovers in the nude.
Revel in the flight of birds without
dreaming of flight. Remember the taste of
raw dough in your mouth as you edged a pie.

Feel the skin on things vibrate. Attune
yourself. Close your eyes. Hum.
Each beat of the world's pulse demands
only that you feel it. No thoughts.
Just the single syllable: Yes ...

See the homeless woman following
the tunings of a dead composer?
She closes her eyes and sways
with the subways. Follow her down,
inside, where the singing resides.

David Allen Sullivan

A Lovely Thing

The first time
you ever kissed me,
I knew it was going to happen
but it was still a little surprise.
You know how much I like chocolatey surprises,
lovely things,
little love bites under the warmth of your blanket
that smelled like the way you do
after a long hot shower
in the sun.
I remember the way you looked at me
right before you went for it,
and I remember really liking it
and wanting more.
I couldn't stop smiling after,
not for a few days at least.
How long has it been since that first time
I tasted you?
(Well technically the second but who's counting.)
Yet still every time I lean you up against your door
as you go to face another day in the snow,
a little surprise comes crashing down
in my heart,
another lovely thing,
and the way you look at me in the darkness
is the way you looked at me before,
(the very first time and the second)
and I hope it is
the way you will look at me
forevermore.

Baloney

There's a young couple in the parking lot, kissing.
Not just kissing, they look as though they might eat
each other up, kissing, nibbling, biting, mouths wide
open, play fighting like young dogs, wrapped around
each other like snakes. I remember that, sort of, that
hunger, that passionate intensity. And I get a kind of
nostalgic craving for it, in the way that I get a craving,
occasionally, for the food of my childhood. Baloney
on white bread, for instance: one slice of white bread
with mustard or Miracle Whip or ketchup-not
ketchup, one has to draw the line somewhere-and
one slice of baloney. It had a nice symmetry to it, the
circle of baloney on the rectangle of bread. Then you
folded the bread and baloney in the middle and took
a bite out of the very center of the folded side. When
you unfolded the sandwich you had a hole, a circle in
the center of the bread and baloney frame, a window,
a porthole from which you could get a new view of
the world.

Louis Jenkins

Do you crave me like you crave a cigarette?
Do you yearn to put your lips on me
like you yearn to wrap your lips around the beautiful
white stick that allows itself to enter your mouth
and run deep sea down your throat?

Do you crave me like you crave a cigarette?
In the middle of the snow
falling lightly on your shoulders,
do you feel the urgent need to breathe me in
and fill the holes found in your chest?
And after one or two puffs,
do you feel the same amount of hate and regret
that you felt the day you came to church with me
and sat in the wooden brown seat
while a priest said words you would never care to understand.

Even if the song of the eagle

was strong and bright,

loud and cold,

piercing like a trumpet,

what use would it have 

if it never appealed to the sparrow?

Do you ever let yourself mourn
or do you hide the funeral away
like I do?
Do you let the holy Mass go on
and on and on,
the angels' chorus ringing in the air,
a cloud of "holy holy holy"
among the smell of incense and from
the dark lair in your soul,
do you watch and watch and watch
hoping it will never end?
Nobody ever liked dirt under their fingernails.

Slowly,
one by one,
they disappear from my life
as if I had never met them at all.
They laugh and they drink,
red lips and pink hips,
stories I had read growing up
and now can't seem to remember
or forget.

The Big Bang

When the morning comes that you don't wake up,
what remains of your life goes on as some kind of
electromagnetic energy. There's a slight chance you
might appear on someone's screen as a dot. Face it.
You are a blip or a ping, part of the background noise,
the residue of the Big Bang. You remember the Big
Bang, don't you? You were about 26 years old, driving
a brand new red and white Chevy convertible, with
that beautiful blond girl at your side. Charlene, was
her name. You had a case of beer on ice in the back,
cruising down Highway number 7 on a summer
afternoon and then you parked near Loon Lake just
as the moon began to rise. Way back then you said to
yourself, "Boy, it doesn't get any better than this," and
you were right.

Louis Jenkins

Conversation with My Father

I talked to Death,
He was actually quite funny.
I was surprised that it was a he and not a she,
and I told him so – he simply shrugged and looked up at the sky,
and when I followed his gaze I noted that I could only see
one star shining.
I guess it was a cloudy night.
I asked Death if he liked to sit down or stand up,
and he told me it didn’t matter to him,
no one offered him a chair when he was on the job.
I told him he wasn’t on the job now so he could sit down if he wanted to.
He smiled and thanked me, but remained where he was.
His eyes weren’t cold, nor were they kind – although I tried
not to look into them for the fear that I might fall in.
He asked me if I’d been in love yet, and I told him that I think
I had, but I don’t think anyone had been in love with me.
He stopped for a moment and thought, and looked at me again,
and smiled as if he knew a secret.
I asked him what it was, but he shook his head and simply said
that it wasn’t Time.
I shrugged and continued gazing at the one star sky,
the light dimmed by passing clouds and
inexplicably I felt sad, and it was the sadness that
made tears roll down my cheek as my heart exploded with love.
I looked at Death and asked him if it was supposed to hurt this much inside,
and he told me he didn’t know what it was supposed to be like,
it just was.
And I told him about the one star in the sky
and how its dull edges reminded me of the table
where I had read his letter,
the one saying goodbye and nothing else,
although I’m sure I felt all the words he didn’t think to tell me.
I looked at Death once more and asked him
if everyone was inherently afraid, if that was the human condition –
to be so afraid to love because of the way it tore us in two.
Death replied that the only reason love tore us in two was so
that we could be put back together with someone else.
And then I asked him what would happen if you remained torn in two
and he told me that’s what suffering was.
I told him I didn’t want to suffer anymore, and I asked him to take it away.
He leaned over and touched the grass beside my knee,
got up and started walking away and I watched as he walked up
to the one star sky, his robe gleaming against the clouds that
worshipped his broken soled shoes.
I didn’t know what to do at that moment, so I got up and went home,
my dog licked my toes.
I went to sleep.

The person who can kiss another man's boils knows that it was only chance and this choice that saved him from becoming the monster the other is perceived to be.


You see,
I wish my father had kissed my scars,
held me and told me that they were nothing
and that I was everything.
I wish my father had looked upon me
in all of my miserable glory
and saw the most beautiful girl in the world
standing before him.

These Few Precepts

            (For Marna)

I said to her, don't leave your life
scattered in boxes across the country,

don't slip away without tying down
the hatch, don't walk a mile out of

your way to avoid a crack, don't
worry about breaking your mother's

back. I'm sorry, I said, that I was
stupid when I married; I'm sorry I

chose for right instead of love, for
truth instead of beauty. They aren't

always the same thing you know,
despite what Keats said. Don't try

to do it all alone, and if you fail,
think of how well you've failed

and how all you really need is a good
view of the sky or a bit of something

—a flower petal or speckled stone—
Held close enough for the eye to

drink it in, and remember, I said,
I'll always love you, no matter what.
Joyce Sutphen

Maybe I deserve it.
Maybe I deserve your indignation,
your words of passion
against the curve of my hip,
the smile on my lips.

Maybe I deserve the constant
ups and downs,
love you call it,
love it is.

Who cares if days are long and dreary
and to whom I say,
"Darling, I am weary."
I was faulted when I was born
and even though every rose has its thorn,
I am more of a stem of grass.
Durable, patient, penitent,
easily cut
but always growing.

Maybe I do deserve it
being born less than her and her.
Maybe a mother's love is only a myth
perpetrated by people
who love nails and crosses. 

I remember when forevers seem to last forever
and yesterday seemed to be a moment in time,
a blink of an eye.

The air was cool as it travelled along my cheeks
and down my spine.
Summer was gone
and you were here to stay
a forever and a day.

Will our past seem like the first breath
of our children,
pink and wet?
One day, will today still have felt like forever
or are we doomed to yearn for the time that has passed
and to pine for the times that will stay.

No,
I did not pick up the phone that day.
I heard it ring,
ring ring,
ring ring,
over and over again.

It was real,
I checked it against the noise of the sun.
I heard your phone ring that day
and I did not pick it up.

Editing my thesis is a lot like
baking a cake.
You have a formula to follow
to make it perfect,
yet the desire to experiment
leads to failures and wasted flour.

Still the thought of warm sponge
and delicate icing
leads us to turn the oven on again.
Crack two more eggs,
time to try again.

Eat away, emotional piranhas.
I'm made of tougher stuff than flesh.
I've already been unloved,
throw something new at me.
Or don't.
Lessons of humility are daily walks
and I got some real good walking shoes on.

How It Is with Us, and How It Is with Them

We become religious,
then we turn from it,
then we are in need and maybe we turn back.
We turn to making money,
then we turn to the moral life,
then we think about money again.
We meet wonderful people, but lose them
     in our busyness.
We're, as the saying goes, all over the place.
Steadfastness, it seems,
is more about dogs than about us.
One of the reasons we love them so much.

Mary Oliver

The very act of taking a breath is a miracle
and I see it in you every day.
I watch you sleep and
in my dreams, I see you breathe.
The sharp point of your nose
and the way the streetlights reflect off your eyebrows,
isn't that what dreams are made of?

You still touch my life in the most unexpected of ways,
like the Northern lights, that one summer day.
I don't look for you
and yet you appear in the edge of a book,
the lift of a wing,
and I smile and hope all is well.

Wedding Cake

Once on a plane
a woman asked me to hold her baby
and disappeared.
I figured it was safe,
our being on a plane and all.
How far could she go?

She returned one hour later,
having changed her clothes
and washed her hair.
I didn't recognize her.

By this time the baby
and I had examined
each other's necks.
We had cried a little.
I had a silver bracelet
and a watch.
Gold studs glittered
in the baby's ears.
She wore a tiny white dress
leafed with layers
like a wedding cake.

I did not want
to give her back.

The baby's curls coiled tightly
against her scalp,
another alphabet.
I read new new new.
My mother gets tired.
I'll chew your hand.

The baby left my skirt crumpled,
my lap aching.
Now I'm her secret guardian,
the little nub of dream
that rises slightly
but won't come clear.

As she grows,
as she feels ill at ease,
I'll bob my knee.

What will she forget?
Whom will she marry?
He'd better check with me.
I'll say once she flew
dressed like a cake
between two doilies of cloud.
She could slip the card into a pocket,
pull it out.
Already she knew the small finger
was funnier than the whole arm.

Naomi Shihab Nye

Sometimes, I think about the man who wrote this for me long ago.

Sometimes, I wonder what became of him.

I do not love him anymore, no, but I miss him the way one misses their favourite pair of shoes.


"The morning sun awakens the senses of that autumn day. The last droplets of dew retreating from the foliage of the garden. The sparrow watches me i work the soil. Observing, analysing, judgeing. Ever present since the earliest signs of summer i'll miss its joyous chimes when it leaves for warmer climes. Winter is approaching now. The sounds of summer will give way to the scant silence of winter. All things must turn and the sparrow is ready to leave. That final chorus of acoustic brilliance echoes into the arms of mid morning. With a final surveyance of her summer landscape she leaves. Will the passing of time return the sparrow to the kingdom of her youth. The winter awaits but i still hear the joys of summer."

In Paris With You

Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I'm one of your talking wounded.
I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.
But I'm in Paris with you.

Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess that I've been through.
I admit I'm on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I'm in Paris with you.

          Do you mind 'f we do not go to the Louvre,
          If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
          If we skip the Champs Elysees
          And re1nain here in this sleazy
          Old hotel room
          Doing this and that
          To what and whom
          Learning who you are,
          Learning what I am.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I'm in Paris with you.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I'm in Paris with ... all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I'm in Paris with you.

James Fenton

Slipping my foot in a shoe
is a lot like slipping my hand
in your heart.

It may not be the perfect fit,
but eventually,
with enough pushing and prodding,
it's wearable.

In and out.
In and out.
I know you are thinking of the "s" word,
and I am thinking of an "f" word.

In and out of people's lives,
like a ghost, albeit a friendly one.
I knew you for a day, maybe a few months
before you deemed me unworthy
or discarded me due to lack of use.

People are people are stories,
so many stories, so many memories.
Thoughts flooding in and out,
in and out.
I always loved the sound of the ocean.

So I will write about you,
and you,
and of course, you.
I will sing songs to the endless moon
of the laughs we shared.
I will meet you again,
and I won't recognise your reincarnation,
but that's okay.
We will start again.

You touch my lips
with yours,
and I wonder if you touched hers that way.
That her, that pearl,
that girl you first mistook me for
under a drunken haze with a drunken gaze.

I never thought I would just appear in your heart
like a knot in your throat,
I knew it would take time.
I knew it would take time to replace whomever was there.

And have I? Have I taken over?
Have I erased wishful thinkings of little blonde girls
with little blonde curls?
Sorry, I know you like your hair straight.

You were not the only one
with an only love
before we met.
I, too, loved someone under the winter sun.
I, too, thought I was married.

The past is passed
and now we are the future.
I hope I am the one and only,
but I may just be the only one.

The Ubiquitous Day Lily of July

There is an orange day lily that blooms in July and is
everywhere around these parts right now. Common.
Ordinary. It grows in everybody's dooryard—abandoned
or lived in—along the side of the road, in front of stone walls,
at gas stations and garages, at the entrance to driveways,
anywhere it takes a mind to sprout. You always see them
in clusters, bunches, never by themselves. They propagate
by rhizomes, which is why they are so resilient, and why
you see them in bunches.

There is an orange day lily that blooms in July and is
ubiquitous right now. The roadside mowers mow a lot
of them, but they don't get them all.

These are not the rare and delicate lemon yellow day lilies
or the other kinds people have around their places. This one
is coarse and ordinary, almost harsh in its weathered beauty,
like an older woman with a tough, worldly-wise and wrinkled
face. There is nothing nubile, smooth or perky about this flower.
It's not fresh. It's been around awhile and everybody knows it.

As I said, it's coarse and ordinary and it's beautiful because
it's ordinary. A plant gone wild and therefore become
rugged, indestructible, indomitable, in short: tough, resilient,
like anyone or thing has to be in order to survive.

David Budbill

How many intimacies must we harbour until we find the person that we share those intimacies with until we die?

- Written at a time of deep emotional anguish.

Aimless Love

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor's window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door—
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor—
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

Billy Collins

David Tennant Photobombs

Song of Smoke

To watch you walk
cross the room in your black

corduroys is to see
civilization start—
the wish-
whish-whisk

of your strut is flint
striking rock—the spark

of a length of cord
rubbed till

smoke starts—you stir
me like coal

and for days smolder.
I am no more

a Boy Scout and besides,
could never

put you out—you
keep me on

all day like an iron, out
of habit—

you threaten, brick—
house, to burn

all this down. You leave me
only a chimney.

Kevin Young

The End

At the end of the marriage they lay down on their big, exhausted bed.
It was crowded with all the men and women they had ever loved.

Of course their fathers and mothers were there and a boy in uniform
she'd kissed on a stairwell. His first wife spooned her first husband.

Ridiculous Affair held hands with Stupendous Infatuation.
There was a racket of dreaming and, though both were tired

from the difficult end and in need of sleep, neither could sleep,
so they began telling each other the long, good story of their love.

She was wearing the red dress. The white boat hitched to the wood dock
filled with rainwater. The swans were again teaching the young to fly.

The story went out to nice dinners, took summer holidays, and by the time
they were done, the old loves rolled over in a jumble on the floor,

and, because this is what they knew to do well with one another,
they made love, and then without thinking it was the last time, said,

I love you, and fell asleep under the heavy, blue coverlet.

Victoria Redel

Myrtle

How funny your name would be
if you could follow it back to where
the first person thought of saying it,
naming himself that, or maybe
some other persons thought of it
and named that person. It would
be like following a river to its source,
which would be impossible. Rivers have no source.
They just automatically appear at a place
where they get wider, and soon a real
river comes along, with fish and debris,
regal as you please, and someone
has already given it a name: St. Benno
(saints are popular for this purpose) or, or
some other name, the name of his
long-lost girlfriend, who comes
at long last to impersonate that river,
on a stage, her voice clanking
like its bed, her clothing of sand
and pasted paper, a piece of real technology,
while all along she is thinking, I can
do what I want to do. But I want to stay here.
John Ashbery

Starting today, August 23rd, I, Shani, take a vow to not step on a weighing scale for a month.

Eeps.

Also lots of commas.

Big Dumb Elephant

I was that big dumb elephant in the room.
I stood there and took it,
pretending you didn't see me,
but I saw you.
I saw you for what you were.
You spoke and thought I couldn't hear,
and now the ears of my memory
are playing the sounds of your words
and your laugh.

Ha. Ha.
The elephant in the room,
deaf, blind, and dumb.
I remember, I remember.
I can hear you know,
I can speak you know.

But I stood there,
mute, deaf, dumb,
and took it.
I took it like the circus elephant,
a flank tougher than than the whip
but a soul as delicate as the inside of a flower.

And sometimes,
in the place my thoughts travel to,
I see her look over and give me a kiss,
and for a second
I allow myself to feel human. 

Mountains

Sometimes, it seems that the problems before me are so immense.

No job, no career, no future.
No education, no life, no money.

It seems the word of the day is "no".

You have nothing. You are nothing.
Are they one and the same?

All these voices telling me who I am not.
You are not her, the girl with the job,
you are not him, the boy with the car,
you are not them, the people who have.

All these voices telling me I am a state of being.
You are disappointment.
You are undeserving.
You are ungrateful.
You are nothing.

Even nothing is something in a world where opposites define the current truth.

Right?

Sometimes, the problems before me are immense
but I choose to not believe so.
I am the mountain that came to Mohammed
but he is the one that has to traverse my distance shores.
He is the one who has to scale my rocky walls
and porous caverns,
and maybe in his journey he will realise that there is grandeur
in me after all.
Hidden, poor, broken,
but on what scale are all things judged anyway?

Names

All the names out there

and we have our own.

Names that seem so familiar and so distant,

yours, mine, ours.

There are so many names out there,

yet the names are the same.

It's just an arbitrary way to call you

and see you turn toward me and smile,
smile like the world was your own at that very moment,

and all would be right.

The way my name runs off your lips,

like it's the same name
you've been saying forever.

Names names names.

Your name, my name, our name.

A word. Simply felt.

Next Time

I'll know the names of all of the birds
and flowers, and not only that, I'll
tell you the name of the piano player
I'm hearing right now on the kitchen
radio, but I won't be in the kitchen,

I'll be walking a street in
New York or London, about
to enter a coffee shop where people
are reading or working on their
laptops. They'll look up and smile.

Next time I won't waste my heart
on anger; I won't care about
being right. I'll be willing to be
wrong about everything and to
concentrate on giving myself away.

Next time, I'll rush up to people I love,
look into their eyes, and kiss them, quick.
I'll give everyone a poem I didn't write,
one specially chosen for that person.
They'll hold it up and see a new
world. We'll sing the morning in,

and I will keep in touch with friends,
writing long letters when I wake from
a dream where they appear on the
Orient Express. "Meet me in Istanbul,"
I'll say, and they will.

Joyce Sutphen

You say many things.
You say that I am beautiful,
and that I am fat.
Not as fat now,
although the stretch marks on my hips
speak to the days of my youth
when the mysterious god of puberty
deemed me worthy
to drink his nectar.

So many things come out of your mouth.
One day I asked why you were so mean
and you said I'd understand when I was older.
I'm older now and I still don't understand.

I wonder about you,
I wonder about your thoughts
and my dreams.
I wonder if they'll ever reconcile,
stranger faces in stranger's places.
Your hand never in mine,
I guess it should have been my hand in yours.

I never knew that pleasure.
It doesn't matter now.

Once you hugged me with one arm
and I knew that you could love me.
I'm too far away from that now.
From a distance, everything looks beautiful.
You'll always be terrifyingly beautiful.
Terrifying me, beautifully.
I'm sorry.

Slowly

I watched a snake once, swallow a rabbit.
Fourth grade, the reptile zoo
the rabbit stiff, nose in, bits of litter stuck to its fur,

its head clenched in the wide
jaws of the snake, the snake
sucking it down its long throat.

All throat that snake—I couldn't tell
where the throat ended, the body
began. I remember the glass

case, the way that snake
took its time (all the girls, groaning, shrieking
but weren't we amazed, fascinated,

saying we couldn't look, but looking, weren't we
held there, weren't we
imagining—what were we imagining?)

Mrs. Peterson urged us to move on girls,
but we couldn't move. It was like
watching a fern unfurl, a minute

hand move across a clock. I didn't know why
the snake didn't choke, the rabbit never
moved, how the jaws kept opening

wider, sucking it down, just so
I am taking this in, slowly,
taking it into my body:

this grief. How slow
the body is to realize.
You are never coming back.

Donna Mancini

The Russian Greatcoat

While my children swim off the breakwater,
while my wife sleeps beside me in the sun,
I recall how you once said you knew
a sure way to paradise or hell.
Years ago, you stood on the Covington bridge,
demanded I throw my coat into the Ohio—
my five dollar "Russian greatcoat,"
my "Dostoevsky coat," with no explanations,
simply because you asked.

From that height, the man-sized coat fell
in slow motion, floated briefly,
one sinking arm bent at the elbow.
At first, I evade the question when my wife asks
as if just thinking of you were an act of betrayal.
The cigarette I shared with you above the river.
Our entrance into the city, your thin black coat
around both our shoulders. Sometimes I can go
weeks without remembering.

Theodore Deppe

Thesis Frustrations

No one's around. NO ONE'S AROUND.  Everyone can take their bloody (pardon my English) vacations and leave me here in limbo and want me to be done by the end of August if they're not even around? WHAT?!

Not to mention, just handed in a printed copy of my objectives and hypotheses, materials and methods, and results and all I got was "it's thin". Well yes it's freaking thin, what do you want me to say? I had like four outcome measures, how much more shall I make of the data? It's RESULTS. I just say what was significant, what wasn't, give them some tables, done. Right?

If it's not right, then TELL ME what I'm doing wrong. Clearly, I've never written a thesis before and any failing on my part is not my failing, but a failure of my committee to give me an understanding of what is expected and needed. Because to be honest, I have no idea.

So let me drown in my sorrows, struggle for one day longer.

What is a thesis but a collection of words

written unromantically about the most romantic topic in the world.

That Reminds Me

Just imagine yourself seated on a shadowy terrace,
And beside you is a girl who stirs you more strangely than an
      heiress,
It is a summer evening at its most superb,
And the moonlight reminds you that To Love is an active verb.
And your hand clasps hers, which rests there without shrinking,
And after a silence fraught with romance you ask her what she is
      thinking,
And she starts and returns from the moon-washed distances to the
      shadowy veranda,
And says, Oh I was wondering how many bamboo shoots a day it
      takes to feed a baby Giant Panda.
Or you stand with her on a hilltop and gaze on a winter sunset,
And everything is as starkly beautiful as a page from Sigrid Undset,
And your arm goes round her waist and you make an avowal
      which for masterfully marshaled emotional content might have
      been a page of Ouida's or Thackeray's,
And after a silence fraught with romance she says, I forgot to or-
      der the limes for the Daiquiris.
Or in a twilight drawing room you have just asked the most mo-
      mentous of questions,
And after a silence fraught with romance she says, I think this
      little table would look better where that little table is, but
      then where would that little table go, have you any sugges-
      tions?
And that's the way they go around hitting below our belts;
It isn't that nothing is sacred to them, it's just that at the Sacred
      Moment they are always thinking of something else.

Ogden Nash

Heh.

"Do you love me?" she asked,
eyes wide and trusting.
And I smiled and said, "No."

The day she left was a sunny day,
the universe didn't cry with me.
Purely my fault, you see.

I didn't have it in me
to just let her love be.
I doubted too hard
the value of my heart,
so I let her sail away,
leaving only a part of me to stay.

I once used to consider myself brilliant,
and now I wonder where it all went wrong.
Somewhere between my pride and my gun,
I let it all run downhill,
and all the while I thought I was right.
Turns out, there is no such thing as right,
only left,
I'm left behind.

So if I could do it again,
I'd do it just the same.
I do not have it in me to love the pain,
the pleasure, the core of being.
I simply am what I am,
and I will let myself be.
And one day, I hope to see her baby
and know that was never my life to breathe.

And So It Begins...

Thesis editing.

Just got my first edit back. Not good, apparently my grammar is not as good as I thought. But I did always claim to be grammar RCMP, not gestapo level. I even got a book about grammar called, "The Elements of Style". I think it's worth a read.

Apparently, my writing is too "80s young woman style", and "too romanticised". My thesis isn't a romance, who knew? I thought it was an ode to PCOS.

Oh PCOS, with your face so fair,
why do you give women lots of facial hair?

Right, onwards to editing....

Be prepared to hear more of this epic saga.

Portrait of an ENFJ - The Giver

If you wanted to know me a bit better...

As an ENFJ, your primary mode of living is focused externally, where you deal with things according to how you feel about them, or how they fit into your personal value system. Your secondary mode is internal, where you take things in primarily via your intuition.

ENFJs are people-focused individuals. They live in the world of people possibilities. More so than any other type, they have excellent people skills. They understand and care about people, and have a special talent for bringing out the best in others. ENFJ's main interest in life is giving love, support, and a good time to other people. They are focused on understanding, supporting, and encouraging others. They make things happen for people, and get their best personal satisfaction from this.

Because ENFJ's people skills are so extraordinary, they have the ability to make people do exactly what they want them to do. They get under people's skins and get the reactions that they are seeking. ENFJ's motives are usually unselfish, but ENFJs who have developed less than ideally have been known to use their power over people to manipulate them.

ENFJ's are so externally focused that it's especially important for them to spend time alone. This can be difficult for some ENFJs, because they have the tendency to be hard on themselves and turn to dark thoughts when alone. Consequently, ENFJs might avoid being alone, and fill their lives with activities involving other people. ENFJs tend to define their life's direction and priorities according to other people's needs, and may not be aware of their own needs. It's natural to their personality type that they will tend to place other people's needs above their own, but they need to stay aware of their own needs so that they don't sacrifice themselves in their drive to help others.

ENFJ's tend to be more reserved about exposing themselves than other extraverted types. Although they may have strongly-felt beliefs, they're likely to refrain from expressing them if doing so would interfere with bringing out the best in others. Because their strongest interest lies in being a catalyst of change in other people, they're likely to interact with others on their own level, in a chameleon-like manner, rather than as individuals.

Which is not to say that the ENFJ does not have opinions. ENFJs have definite values and opinions which they're able to express clearly and succinctly. These beliefs will be expressed as long as they're not too personal. ENFJ is in many ways expressive and open, but is more focused on being responsive and supportive of others. When faced with a conflict between a strongly-held value and serving another person's need, they are highly likely to value the other person's needs.

The ENFJ may feel quite lonely even when surrounded by people. This feeling of aloneness may be exacerbated by the tendency to not reveal their true selves.

People love ENFJs. They are fun to be with, and truly understand and love people. They are typically very straight-forward and honest. Usually ENFJs exude a lot of self-confidence, and have a great amount of ability to do many different things. They are generally bright, full of potential, energetic and fast-paced. They are usually good at anything which captures their interest.

ENFJs like for things to be well-organized, and will work hard at maintaining structure and resolving ambiguity. They have a tendency to be fussy, especially with their home environments.

In the work place, ENFJs do well in positions where they deal with people. They are naturals for the social committee. Their uncanny ability to understand people and say just what needs to be said to make them happy makes them naturals for counseling. They enjoy being the center of attention, and do very well in situations where they can inspire and lead others, such as teaching.

ENFJs do not like dealing with impersonal reasoning. They don't understand or appreciate its merit, and will be unhappy in situations where they're forced to deal with logic and facts without any connection to a human element. Living in the world of people possibilities, they enjoy their plans more than their achievements. They get excited about possibilities for the future, but may become easily bored and restless with the present.

ENFJs have a special gift with people, and are basically happy people when they can use that gift to help others. They get their best satisfaction from serving others. Their genuine interest in Humankind and their exceptional intuitive awareness of people makes them able to draw out even the most reserved individuals.

ENFJs have a strong need for close, intimate relationships, and will put forth a lot of effort in creating and maintaining these relationships. They're very loyal and trustworthy once involved in a relationship.

An ENFJ who has not developed their Feeling side may have difficulty making good decisions, and may rely heavily on other people in decision-making processes. If they have not developed their Intuition, they may not be able to see possibilities, and will judge things too quickly based on established value systems or social rules, without really understanding the current situation. An ENFJ who has not found their place in the world is likely to be extremely sensitive to criticism, and to have the tendency to worry excessively and feel guilty. They are also likely to be very manipulative and controling with others.

In general, ENFJs are charming, warm, gracious, creative and diverse individuals with richly developed insights into what makes other people tick. This special ability to see growth potential in others combined with a genuine drive to help people makes the ENFJ a truly valued individual. As giving and caring as the ENFJ is, they need to remember to value their own needs as well as the needs of others.

Attempting

I think it's time to write a happy poem,
a poem to write that is happy.

Words elude me when it comes to
this mysterious emotion,
this mysterious feeling of being placated
in the moment.
Is it because it lasts but a moment?
Until something happens that destroys
every fiber of our being
and we are reborn again,
from darkness unto light?

She might be in love, with him,
not yet,
but maybe.
But she is scared of this being taken away,
so she walks in circles
until games become lives,
and trophy wives cast the die,
let the cookie crumble the way it falls,
the maid is here to clean it all up.

This was supposed to be a happy poem,
not an introspective one.
I need to write more happy poems,
happiness is just love won, after all.

Caught Slippin

Lol bae caught me slippin. Love him. Goodnight from us <3

Sun Day

Today was an ordinary day at Mass. I was actually listening to the homily (Fr. Fong is a bit hard to understand, even for me). You know, kneel, sit, listen, pray...the usual.

And then I got cut deep. It came out of nowhere, and it came fast. This keen sense of loneliness.

You see, my family left for India two days ago, and I always feel lonely when they leave the country.

But it's the long weekend, and there are no turkey dinners or bbq meats waiting for me. There are no aunties or uncles or cousins to hang out with. There are no fights before church or maybe an evening stroll by the lake followed by Dairy Cream.

It's just me at church with a broken kneeler. Everyone's a stranger.

And it hurts. It hurts so bad. It'll pass, I know it will.

I don't know where I belong. That is my offering.

It's a terrible love and I'm walking with spiders.

Autobiographia Literaria

When I was a child
I played by myself in a
corner of the schoolyard
all alone.

I hated dolls and I
hated games, animals were
not friendly and birds
flew away.

If anyone was looking
for me I hid behind a
tree and cried out "I am
an orphan."

And here I am, the
center of all beauty!
writing these poems!
Imagine!

Frank O'Hara

Thin/Fat Privilege

Why is the internet mad at obesity being classified as a disease? The body has an optimal standard of health (hence healthy), and falling out of it is unhealthy. Wouldn't people be happier at obesity being classified as a disease? That way, there is none of this blindness toward obese being healthy.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not screaming skinny is healthy. But I'm saying usually. obesity means that you are unhealthy or are well on the way to unhealthiness, leading to problems such as cardiovascular disease, type 2 diabetes, metabolic syndrome, and other things that no one wants.

Nobody is saying that the person who is obese is a disease. When you see a person with cancer, is that person cancer? Are we calling that person cancer? No, that person has cancer. Let's do what we can to fix it. Same thing with obesity; your metabolism and connection to food (physically and psychologically) has been screwed up somewhere, and we have to fix it. No, it's not fat shaming, and yes, health at any size (HAES) but there is a range for healthy sizes.

I'm not fat shaming. I've been shamed for my weight my entire life. Nobody believed me when I said that I actually wasn't eating all that much.

You see, I have PCOS (polycystic ovary syndrome) with associated insulin resistance. What that means is that for my body to process sugar, it takes more insulin as I am not sensitive to it anymore, and that extra insulin causes an increase in fat storage, a decrease in fat breakdown, and an increase in male hormones (among other things). That makes sense - insulin was a caveman hormone; we needed to store everything as fat when we weren't sure of our next meal. But now....now we don't. So now, people like me suffer consequences.

Classifying obesity as a disease is to help, not to hurt.

My friends, I try to be an easy breeze but sometimes I get down.

Do You Love Me?

She's twelve and she's asking the dog,
who does, but who speaks
in tongues, whose feints and gyrations
are themselves parts of speech.

They're on the back porch
and I don't really mean to be taking this in
but once I've heard I can't stop listening. Again
and again she asks, and the good dog

sits and wiggles, leaps and licks.
Imagine never asking. Imagine why:
so sure you wouldn't dare, or couldn't care
less. I wonder if the dog's guileless brown eyes

can lie, if the perfect canine lack of abstractions
might not be a bit like the picture books
she "read" as a child, before her parents' lips
shaped the daily miracle of speech

and kisses, and the words were not lead
and weighed only air, and did not mean
so meanly. "Do you love me?" she says
and says, until the dog, sensing perhaps

its own awful speechlessness, tries to bolt,
but she holds it by the collar and will not
let go, until, having come closer,
I hear the rest of it. I hear it all.

She's got the dog's furry jowls in her hands,
she's speaking precisely
into its laid-back, quivering ears:
"Say it," she hisses, "say it to me."

Robert Wrigley

Data Entry

There is no document of any four letter word,
or whether they were hurting,
or hunting,
or fighting.
And through it all, the mundane,
the steady type type type
of my fingers against electrified plastic,
I imagine them frolicking among grasses of green
or them feeling the whispers of snowflakes on their noses
as young boys held them in the middle of a winter storm.
That is what I imagine
as I do some data entry
for some extra cash on the side.

From a Friend, to Me

You are dazzlingly special and I wouldn't change a thing about who you are.




There is a little bit of love in the world :)

He Smelled like Summer

He smelled like sweat,
the way that boys smell
after long bike rides through unmowed lawns
with pollen and dirt and muddy shoes
tracking steps along my wooden floor.

I liked the way he smelled,
my nose pressed up behind his ear,
as my body fit the familiar grooves
and his strong heartbeat pumped up against my wrist.
I laid my fingers on his stomach,
and felt the muscles tense.
Oh, did I like the way he felt.

He smelled like summer.
His body radiating heat,
the back of his neck black,
his forearm dark against the softness of my thighs.

In my little room, in the middle of nowhere,
he left his summer scent on my pillow
and I await his return again.

Swearing, and Other Such Mouth Actions

I've been thinking about swearing a lot lately. Swearing, cursing, cussing, words words words.

You all know I like words.

My friend Tom and I decided we both wanted to swear less. More than that, we both realised that we weren't fully aware anymore of what words escaped us anymore. That was a conclusion I was coming to as everything that bothered me ended in little four letter words, followed by a quick look see to watch for any children.

Why did I care if children were there?

The Avett brothers, in their song "Tear Down the House" said.

"Ever since I learned how to curse,
I've been using those sorry old words.
But I'm talking to these children
and I'm keeping it clean,
I don't need those words to say what I mean.
No, I don't need those words to say what I mean."

There are other ways of expressing oneself. I'm not against cursing, everyone does what they want to do, just like I'm not against sex or eating junk food. But in moderation, at the right time and place. Or else it becomes a natural part of your interaction with the world, and is that what you want to be putting out into the universe? Expressions of anger and hate?

My mom used to tell me this story that she had heard as a kid, that the gods were always saying, "Let it be done." So if you said good things, good things happened, and if you said bad things, bad things happened. I don't believe in karma, but I do believe there is a balance. The measure you give will be the measure you get back. I guess that's why I try to see things in a positive light.

I just came across this story of Blessed John Paul II, when having his fingers slammed by the car door, the first thing out of his mouth was, "Thank you, Lord, for loving me this way."

You know, I started to wonder when f words started replacing the "I offer this to the souls in purgatory," or "Thank you Jesus", especially when things would happen, like toes stubbed or drinks spilled.

Maybe it's time to head on back to that. A little more humility in my day would help more than hurt.

Sonnet

Alas, that June should come when thou didst go;
I think you passed each other on the way;
And seeing thee, the Summer loved thee so
That all her loveliness she gave away;

Willa Cather

Crying, at Mass

I cry/want to cry/have a hard time not crying most times I go to Mass. And I have no idea why.

It's not guilt. It's not a sad cry, but it is at the same time. More sorrowful than sad. Sorrow also contains joy you see.

I go there, and all of a sudden, something touches my soul/heart/mind. Everything that's been worrying me, everything I hide from, all my anxieties, iniquities, worries come to the surface. Truth will out. And I feel it go out to the outer reaches of my skin, and I feel God's hand come and rest around my heart, letting me know...I don't even know. I don't speak God.

But it's emotional. I have such a hard time not making a scene. But I feel it, the beauty, the splendour, the humility, the sacrifice.

Today, in front of me, the baby was blessed before entering the church. The priest said, "You belong to Christ now."

Fr. Eugene probably said that to me when I was baptized. I belong....I belong with Jesus. Forever and always. There is nothing that I will go through that He won't go through with me.

There is nothing more lonelier than going to Mass by yourself. But it is in the loneliness, on the Solemnity of the Body and Blood of Christ, the same Christ that is so close yet so far, that I find myself weeping in the Palm of God.

Gift of tears, and I have no idea what it means.

God is a mysterious thing I will never understand. Yet I know.

“How can you say you love one person when there are ten thousand people in the world that you would love more if you ever met them? But you’ll never meet them. All right, so we do the best we can. Granted. But we must still realize that love is just the result of a chance encounter.”

Charles Bukowski

"You're Really Worked Up, Aren't You?"

Well should I not be? Should I not care about what we are talking about?

Oh, if I was indifferent, would I be more powerful?
If I didn't feel every single rush of love
or anger
or helplessness,
would I stand queen of the world?

Everything and every thing means something,
value is intrinsic, you see.
There are no such things as idle words,
only idle hearts.
When my mind idles, it creeps into a corner
of despair and desperation.

So yes, I am really worked up.
I'm really worked up because I care deeply,
about you, about the conversation,
about every silly little argument ever held in the universe.
There's time for silence when we are dead.

Welcome to The Crow's Nest: Tubes and Nurses

Welcome to The Crow's Nest: Tubes and Nurses: Medical equipment. Tubes and harnesses. This is my life, and it will be my death. I try not to think about it most of the time, but for a w...

Words, Words, Words That Mean Nothing

I can't write anymore
because I'm not angry.
I am scared though,
you think that'd be fuel enough to write.
But how can fear create poetry
if poetry is born of love?

I don't really have an excuse.
I guess I'm just lazy.
Lazy is as lazy does,
and lazy does nothing.
But I do things in my heart,
I constantly write to the universe
and the universe reads it back to me,
green to brown to red to white,
reading me stories of my past, present, future,
of realities present and realities not so present.
Yet, I plug in my headphones and escape into
universes not born of man or woman;
there is nothing in them that is there for me.
But all the same,
I stare and stare,
reading without glasses in a world without lights.



It is the middle of the night.
I'm writing to You,
or you.
It is difficult to be awake when I should be asleep.
The dark thoughts pervade my senses
and it's hard to see the light in any tunnel.
I have sad eyes,
really sad eyes
at night.



I knew my real life father,
he puts cheques in my bank.
They come from the government.
When I used to live at home,
I mean, at a time when home was where my family was.
I remember sleeping in the twin bed across from my sister,
and I saw my dad's thin forearm stroke her forehead.
I'm sure he did the same for me,
he must have.
He cleaned the vomit out of my hair once,
and put his shirt on me.
I was sleeping in a tank top that day,
I mean, I passed out in a tank top that night
after drinking his whiskey.
I was twenty-one,
and he never called me on it.
My dad, I know his name.
My dad's name is Frank.
I'm sure you'd know him too.

What Followed Your Birth

You might not like being reminded
of your birthday, Father said,
but your mother & I do. Your
birth was a happy occasion.
What followed was both good
& bad. That was to be expected,
but what we didn't expect was
that you'd be the last of your friends
to get a job, which you still haven't
gotten yet. It just took you longer
to get started. You had to go back
to school. That wouldn't have been so bad
if you were learning something, but
after all these years to still not know
what you want for a present doesn't
speak well for education.

Hal Sirowitz

I Actually Really Like a Band Called "Puscifer"

Really. You know, I always thought names meant something. And I mean they do. But I never ever ever thought I'd be listening to a band named "Puscifer". It sounds like some kind of anarchist anti-religion kid band who smell like eggs. And while they may be some of those things, including egg smelly, they are definitely talented and have a gorgeously interesting sound. While one can't deny that a lot of their songs are influenced by metal, they do have random gems that don't really fall into a category. Especially "Monsoons", is it rockhop? Melodictronica? You tell me!

Floccinaucinihilipilification

The act of describing something as worthless or having no value.

It is a noun.

Yes, please.

Iron & Wine are coming to Saskatoon. Still feels unreal.

I don't acknowledge it most days, or let it acknowledge me. Not on days like today where it's just gorgeous and everything's happy and wonderful.

But I mean, overall, I guess I'm angry. I guess I'm an angry person.

I think I'm scared.

Will You still love me when I'm no longer young and beautiful?

Anonymous to Anonymous

You have to stop beating yourself up over silly things. You worry that you're not good enough, attractive enough, personable enough, talented enough.
Stop it.
You are wonderful. I love everything about you, the way you laugh when you forget to worry, the way your eyes reflect the sky in all its glory when you stop looking down. Don't forget that.

Anonymous

A Final Embrace

http://lightbox.time.com/2013/05/08/a-final-embrace-the-most-haunting-photograph-from-bangladesh/#1

A minute ago we were standing,

and now we are dead.

You see, my love,

my stranger,

the veil isn't that far

from me or you.

It follows, whispering,

taunting, yearning;

at the end those are the lips we kiss.

At the end we kiss the lips of God.

Yet look,

there we are, my love,

there I am with my arms around you.

Maybe I never even knew you

but a lifetime passed between as we sat there,

as we sat there and the sky crumbled on our lives.

You have a beautiful forearm,

a very beautiful forearm.

That was the last thing I noticed,

or maybe the first thing I noticed for the rest of my life

or unlife.

I don't know where I am

but now I am immortal.

Someone writes words about me

but they'll never be adequate.

Adequate.

Was I adequate?

Was I enough to keep your dying breath golden?

"I don't do drugs. I am drugs."

Salvador Dali

It was never between you and them anyway.

Missing Words and the Phenomenon of Writing

There are words missing from the last poem I posted.

Words. Words that meant something, words that were carefully chosen in the heat of the moment, in the heat of the anguish that I felt, in the entirety of everything, I chose those words to write down. And now they're missing.

I took up writing because I couldn't draw. I've always wanted to draw. I always wanted to make my own graphic novel. A seemingly absurdist story in which nothing happens but at the end of it, you feel like you've aged a couple years, but in the good way, like wine. So here I write. Write and write and write and I've got nothing to say.

And there I missed words.

I once made my professor cry during an interview after my creative writing course. It was inspired by Hemingway's "End of Something". It's something that's always stuck with me. That I made someone cry because of what I had written. Words. I moved with words.

Of course you know,

everybody knows.

Would you listen if I wrote it

in the sand with my toes,

the way we used to?

A Series of Poems I Found on the Back of One of My Assays (2011)

Yes, assays. Not essays. They're not very good but I'll write them down here before I forget them or lose them forever. Some of them, obviously not done. Also, my writing's really hard to read.


Honesty.
My beacon of white light
means nothing in the face
of the sun,
proud and burning,
hot to cold flares, unrelenting,
(?) to try to outshine the
(?) with words created from a place
where no light penetrated.


Everybody's dancing the dance of the rain.
It pours out
and fills the center of the earth,
cooling it down and calming the fury of the fire,
making the soul of the earth
a pathetic apathetic shadow
of a once glorious (?)
with blue green scales.


Through the fire, through the sleet you came
and broke a part of me with you,
as you swam underground (?)
from the catacombs of my memory.
You invaded my soul on the glorious streets of Dublin.


Been away from home for a long time,
living on foreign shores.
The air smells cleaner here,
but I am unsure as to what I am breathing in.


I just wish I could let you go.
Alone, the (?) (?) (?) (?).
Patience is a virtue, you said,
throwing back in my face
all the advice I gave you to save you
from yourself and the fires of hell.
Alas, I've been waiting,
when each second feels like
an entire evolutionary history has gone by,
and I'll be as foolish as the little mudfish,
breathing half air half water,
thriving in neither;
a joke of creature
with (?) (?) energy to breathe.


Over the bridge and under it, one day,
you let your hand slip into mine.

To Quote the Doctor...

The way I see it, every life is a pile of good things and bad things. 

The good things don't always soften the bad things, but vice-versa, the bad things don't necessarily spoil the good things and make them unimportant.

I felt like this yesterday! It scared me!

On certain days I am not in love

and my heart turns over

                       crowding the lungs for

                       air

                       driving blood in and out of

                       the skull improving my mind

                       working muscles to the bone

                       dashing resonance out of a roaring sea

                       at my nerve endings

Not much is needed

                       air

                       good sense

                       power

                       a noisy taking in and a

                       loud giving back

Then my heart like any properly turned

motor takes off in sparks dragging all that machinery

through the blazing day

                       like grass

                                           which our lord knows

                                             I am

Certain Days - Grace Paley

The Lake

At the lake this weekend, I realised a lot of things.

1. Serendipity exists. I met Hank the cat, whom I had written about ages ago, who I didn't know actually existed. He also liked me and cats usually don't like me.

2. Drinking beer through the day is more calories than I normally consume in a day.

3. Weird things will happen at night where you hear things and nobody said anything. It can get scary.

4. When you miss someone even if you spent all weekend with them, is that love?

"And when two people have loved each other
see how it is like a
scar between their bodies,
stronger, darker, and proud;
how the black cord makes of them a single fabric
that nothing can tear or mend."

For What Binds Us - Jane Hirshfield

5. The Avett Brothers make me want to cry in a nice way.

 6. Families can be so radically different. Am I supposed to feel at home in both settings? What if I never do?

7. G.K. Chesterton is a clever clever man who I like to read. He sees the poetic in the unpoetic, and doesn't think it shameful.

8. It snowed 4 inches on April 20th.

It's Alright With Me

...You're a surprise.
I've known you long enough —
Now I can hardly meet your eyes.

It's not that I'm
Embarrassed or ashamed.
You've changed the rules

The way I'd hoped they'd change
Before I thought: hopes are for fools.

Let me walk with you...


James Fenton, "Serious"


Happy 25th parents :)

Bad Things to Such Good People

When we were kids 
I did my best to make them proud 
It just wasn't in me 
I could not fly straight to save my life 

Their big success is now their biggest failure 
Their golden child has been dethroned 
Their reputation is now in ruin 
Their tower to Heaven has come tumbling down

And all the while 
The good Lord smiles
And looks the other way

Because sometimes part time jobs are just embarrassments to the family name, and working hard means very  little if you amount to nothing, forever.