"The only darkness we should allow into our lives is the night,/for even then, we have the moon." #whatweown

"We waste so much energy trying to cover up who we are when beneath every attitude is the want to be loved, and beneath every anger is a wound to be healed and beneath every sadness is the fear that there will not be enough time.

When we hesitate in being direct, we unknowingly slip something on, some added layer of protection that keeps us from feeling the world, and often that thin covering is the beginning of a loneliness which, if not put down, diminishes our chances of joy.

It’s like wearing gloves every time we touch something, and then, forgetting we chose to put them on, we complain that nothing feels quite real. Our challenge each day is not to get dressed to face the world but to unglove ourselves so that the doorknob feels cold and the car handle feels wet and the kiss goodbye feels like the lips of another being, soft and unrepeatable.” 

"An honorable human relationship — that is, one in which two people have the right to use the word “love” — is a process, delicate, violent, often terrifying to both persons involved, a process of refining the truths they can tell each other.

It is important to do this because it breaks down human self-delusion and isolation.

It is important to do this because in doing so we do justice to our own complexity.

It is important to do this because we can count on so few people to go that hard way with us."

Adrienne Rich

"Remove the veils so I might see what is really happening here and not be intoxicated by my stories and my fears." 

Symptoms of Prophecy by Camille Rankine

In the new century,

we lose the art of many things.

 

For example, at the beep, I communicate

using the wrong machine.

 

I called to say we have two lives

and only one of them is real.

 

When the phone rings: you could be anybody.

In the evening: you are homeless

 

and hunting for good light, as safe a place

as any to make a bed for the night.

 

In both my lives, my nerves go bust.

I’m certain that I’m not

 

as I appear, that I’m a figment and

you’re not really here.

 

The struggle

is authenticity.

 

I have a message.

You must believe me.

The Current Isolation by Camille Rankine

In the half-light, I am most

at home, my shadow

as company.

 

When I feel hot, I push a button

to make it stop. I mean this stain on my mind

I can’t get out. How human

 

I seem. Like modern man,

I traffic in extinction. I have a gift.

Like an animal, I sustain.

 

A flock of birds

when touched, I scatter. I won’t approach

until the back is turned.

 

My heart betrays. I confess: I am afraid.

How selfish of me.

When there’s no one here, I halve

 

the distance between

our bodies infinitesimally.

In this long passageway, I pose

 

against the wallpaper, dig

my heels in, catch the light.

In my vision, the back door opens

 

on a garden that is always

in bloom. The dogs

are chained so they can’t attack like I know

 

they want to. In the next yard

over, honeybees swarm

and their sound is huge.

"There is nothing so strong or safe in an emergency of life as the simple truth." Charles Dickens

Solace

Neruda's Ode to an Onion

Onion, luminous flask,
your beauty formed
petal by petal,
crystal scales expanded you
and in the secrecy of the dark earth
your belly grew round with dew.
Under the earth
the miracle
happened
and when your clumsy
green stem appeared,
and your leaves were born
like swords
in the garden ...

Someday I'll Love Ocean Vuong by Ocean Vuong

Ocean, don’t be afraid.The end of the road is so far aheadit is already behind us.Don’t worry. Your father is only your fatheruntil one of you forgets. Like how the spinewon’t remember its wingsno matter how many times our kneeskiss the pavement. Ocean,are you listening? The most beautiful partof your body is whereveryour mother’s shadow falls.Here’s the house with childhoodwhittled down to a single red tripwire.Don’t worry. Just call it horizon& you’ll never reach it.Here’s today. Jump. I promise it’s nota lifeboat. Here’s the manwhose arms are wide enough to gatheryour leaving. & here the moment,just after the lights go out, when you can still seethe faint torch between his legs.How you use it again & againto find your own hands.You asked for a second chance& are given a mouth to empty into.Don’t be afraid, the gunfireis only the sound of peopletrying to live a little longer. Ocean. Ocean,get up. The most beautiful part of your bodyis where it’s headed. & remember,loneliness is still time spentwith the world. Here’s the room with everyone in it.Your dead friends passingthrough you like windthrough a wind chime. Here’s a deskwith the gimp leg & a brickto make it last. Yes, here’s a roomso warm & blood-close,I swear, you will wake—& mistake these wallsfor skin.

The Price of Shame

Compassion.
Compassion.
Compassion.

"Shame cannot survive empathy."

“Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.” 

"Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try Again. Fail again. Fail better."

The Self Slaved by Patrick Kavanagh

Me I will throw away.

Me sufficient for the day

The sticky self that clings

Adhesions on the wings

To love and adventure,

To go on the grand tour

A man must be free

From self-necessity

See over there

A created splendour

Made by one individual

From things residual

With all the various

Qualities hilarious

Of what

Hitherto was not:

A November mood

As by one man understood;

Familiar, an old custom

Leaves falling, a white frosting

Bringing a sanguine dream

A new beginning with an old theme

Throw away thy sloth

Self, carry off my wrath

With its self-righteous

Satirising blotches.

No self, no self-exposure

The weakness of the proser

But undefeatable

By means of the beatable

I will have love, have love

From anything made of

And a life with a shapely form

With gaiety and charm

And capable of receiving

With grace the grace of living

And wild moments too

Self when freed from you.

Prometheus calls me: Son,

We’ll both go off together

In this delightful weather

"Fear is boring."

seven poems for marthe, my wife by Kenneth Rexroth - I

I

In my childhood when I first

Saw myself unfolded in

The triple mirrors, in my

Youth, when I pursued myself

Wandering on wandering

Night bound roads like a roving

Masterless dog, when I met

Myself on sharp peaks of ice,

And tasted myself dissolved

In the lulling heavy sea,

In the talking night, in the

Spiraling stars, what did I

Know? What do I know now,

Of myself, of the others? 

Blood flows out to the fleeing

Nebulae, and flows back, red

With all the worn space of space,

Old with all the time of time.

It is my blood. I cannot

Taste in it as it leaves me

More of myself than on its

Return. I can see into it

Trees of silence and fire.

In the mirrors of its waves 

I can see faces. Mostly

They are your face. On its streams

I can see the leaf shadows

Of the plane trees on the deep

Fluids of your eyes, android the

Golden fires and lamps of years.

II

marthe away

All night I lay awake beside you,

Leaning on my elbow, watching your

Sleeping face, that face whose purity

Never ceases to astonish me.

I could not sleep. But I did not want 

Sleep or miss it. Against my body,

Your body lay like a warm soft star.

How many nights I have waked and watched 

You, in how many places. Who knows?

This night might be the last one of all.

As on so many nights, once more I

Drank from your sleeping flesh the deep still 

Communion I am not always strong

Enough to take from you waking, the peace of love.

Foggy lights moved over the ceiling

Of our room, so like the rooms of France

And Italy, rooms of honeymoon, 

And gave your face an ever changing

Speech, the secret communication

Of untellable love. I knew then, 

As your secret spoke, my secret self,

The blind bird, hardly visible in

An endless web of lies. And I knew

The web too, its every knot and strand,

The hidden crippled bird, the terrible web.

Towards the end of the night, as trucks rumbled

In the streets, you stirred, cuddled to me,

And spoke my name. Your voice was the voice 

Of a girl who had never known loss

Of love, betrayal, mistrust, or lie.

And later you turned again and clutched

My hand and pressed it to your body.

Now I know surely and forever,

However much I have blotted our

Waking love, its memory is still

There. And I know the web, the net,

The blind and crippled bird. For one heart beat the

Heart was free and moved itself. O love,

I who am lost and damned with words,

Whose words are a business and an art, 

I have no words. These words, this poem, this

Is all confusion and ignorance.

But I know that coached by your sweet heart,

My heart beat one free beat and sent

Through all my flesh the blood of truth.

III

Marthe Lonely

To think of you surcharged with

Loneliness. To hear your voice

Over the recorder say,

"Loneliness" The word, the voice,

So full of it, and I, with

You away, so lost in it-

Lost in loneliness and pain,

Black and unendurable,

Thinking of you with every

Corpuscle of my flesh, in

Every instant of night

And day. O, my love, the times

We have forgotten love, and

Sat lonely beside each other.

We have eaten together,

Lonely behind our plates, we

Have hidden behind children,

We have slept together in

A lonely bed. Now my heart

Turns toward you, awake at last,

Penitent, lost to the last

Loneliness. Speak to me. Talk

To me. Break the black silence.

Speak of a tree full of leaves,

Of a flying bird, the new

Moon in the sunset, a poem,

A book, a person-all the

Casual healing speech

Of your resonant, quiet voice. 

The word freedom. The word peace.

IV

Quietly

Lying here quietly beside you,

My cheek against your firm, quiet thighs,

The calm music of Boccherini

Washing over us in the quiet,

As the sun leaves the housetops and goes

Out over the Pacific, quiet-

So quiet the sun moves beyond us,

So quiet as the sun always goes,

So quiet, our bodies, worn with the

Times and the penance  of love, our

Brains curled, quiet in their shells, dormant,

Our hearts slow, quiet, reliable

In their interlocked rhythms, the pulse

In your thigh caressing my cheek. Quiet.

V

A Dialogue of Watching

Let me celebrate you. I

Have never known anyone

More beautiful than you. I,

Walking beside you, watching

You move beside me, watching

That still grace of your hand and thigh,

Watching your face change with words

You do not say, watching your

Solemn eyes as they turn to me,

Or turn inward, fully of knowing,

Slow or quick, watching your full 

Lips part and smile or turn grave,

Watching your narrow waist, your

Proud buttocks in their grace, like

A sailing swan, an animal,

Free, your own, and never

To be subjugated, but

Abandoned, as I am to you,

Overhearing your perfect

Speech of motion, of love and

Trust and security as

You feed or play with our children.

I have never known any

One more beautiful than you.

VI

Marthe Growing

Who are you? Who am I? Haunted

By the dead, by the dead and the past and the

Falling inertia of unreal, dead

Men and things. Haunted by the threat

Of the impersonal, that which

Never will admit the person,

The close world of things. Who are

You? Coming up,out of the

Mineral earth, one pale leaf

Unlike any other unfolding, 

And then another, strange, new,

Utterly different, nothing

I ever expected, growing

Up out of my warm heart's blood.

All new, all strange, all different.

Your own leaf pattern, your own

Flower and fruit, but fed from

One root, the root of our fused flesh.

I and thou, from the one to

The dual, from the dual

To the other, the wonderful

Unending, unfathomable

Process of becoming each 

Our selves for each other.

VII

The Old Song and Dance

You, because you love me, hold
Fast to me, caress me, be
Quiet and kind comfort me
With stillness, say nothing at all.
You, because I love you, o
Am strong for you, I uphold
You. The water is alive
Around us. Living water
Runs in the cut earth between
Us. You, my bride, your voice speaks
Over the water to me.
Your hands, your solemn arms,
Cross the water and hold me.
Your body is beautiful.
It speaks across the water.
Bride, sweeter than honey, glad
Of heart, our hearts beat across
The bridge of our arms. Our speech
Is speech of joy in the night
Of gladness. Our words live.
Our words are children dancing
Forth from us like stars on water.
My bride, my well beloved,
Sweeter than honey, than ripe fruit,
Solemn, grave, a flying bird,
Hold me. Be quiet and kind.
I love you. Be good to me.
I am strong for you. I uphold
You. The dawn of ten thousand
Dawns is afire in the sky.
The water flows in the earth.
The children laugh in the air.

What The Mirror Said

listen,
you a wonder.
you a city
of a woman.
you got a geography
of your own.
listen,
somebody need a map
to understand you.
somebody need directions
to move around you.
listen,
woman,
you not a noplace
anonymous
girl;
mister with his hands on you
he got his hands on
some
damn
body!

Lucille Clifton 

Speech is Designed to Persuade

I

Here we are, my dear, so near we could touch

if touch were what was wanted. A pleasant event

accruing. A view into leaves will move the mind

back slightly. Dunderheaded hindrances.

They kept us apart. Is this what you meant

to have happened? I have taken up bad habits

in your absence. I have taken the tablets

you left on the dresser. I have dressed myself

in feathers fit for flight. I am flight but did not not melt

as some do when they try too hard to fly. A fraction

of four is only saying a small thing oddly.

II

Fine then, they said, let the tree be Knowledge. Let the leaf

be Nature. Let the dog take a name we give it — Pupper.

Let the string be knotted on its linear axis.

And now the sun comes up. The machinery hum

of a pheasant flutter. They were galled by the gift

of a clock, its inconsistent clatter. They looked over a book

of prints taken from frescoes, decorative specimens.

Smitten, relaxed, they took a shower, using only a cup

of water. Uppermost was bliss’s peculiarity.

Six was a cipher, although didn’t they eagerly agree

to let numbers mean nothing?

III

Eventually the text began to explain itself.

Written out, the code was easier to decipher.

They devised a strategy, frequent division,

occasional subtraction. One fragment kissed another.

A sexual innuendo of sorts. Distance was not kind.

They understood the adage that omissions can be cruel

so a system of substitution was concocted. A three was used

to connote a blank space. A blanket was thrown

over the bed but only because it was very, very cold.

It was all in an evening’s amusement.

All a moment’s distraction.

IV

Now then, she said, come closer. He allowed her

so little. And she made do. That can be said in her favor.

She was his favorite. He said so.

She dragged her nails along the surface soundless.

No abominable chalkboard emanation. In the quiet,

a clock. A dog scratching resignedly at a door.

That night she dreamed she lived in a laundry

where everything came clean. She was all

she was going to mean. Let touch be a time-tested image.

Let speech be designed to persuade. Let fragments hold a space.

Let the bell for waking keep breaking in.

Mary Jo Bang

I Don't Miss It by Tracy K. Smith

But sometimes I forget where I am,

Imagine myself inside that life again.

 

Recalcitrant mornings. Sun perhaps, 

Or more likely colorless light

 

Filtering its way through shapeless cloud.

 

And when I begin to believe I haven’t left,

The rest comes back. Our couch. My smoke

 

Climbing the walls while the hours fall.

Straining against the noise of traffic, music,

 

Anything alive, to catch your key in the door.

And that scamper of feeling in my chest,

 

As if the day, the night, wherever it is

I am by then, has been only a whir

 

Of something other than waiting.

 

We hear so much about what love feels like.

Right now, today, with the rain outside,

 

And leaves that want as much as I do to believe

In May, in seasons that come when called,

 

It’s impossible not to want

To walk into the next room and let you

 

Run your hands down the sides of my legs,

Knowing perfectly well what they know.

Uncouplings by Craig Arnold

There is no I in teamwork

but there is a two maker

there is no I in together

but there is a got three

a get to her

the I in relationship

is the heart I slip on

a lithe prison

in all communication

we count on a mimic

(I am not uncomic) 

our listening skills

are silent killings

there is no we in marriage

but a grim area

there is an I in family

also my fail