Chased Through a Town Psychotic

Does anyone know any resources that I might use?

Beating melancholy away with a short stick

And getting shorter.

Disposition unsuited for all I throw at it.

Time too ragged a road to traverse.

The future as unclear as the past I imagined

Still:

Just carry on.

Head up.

Breathe.

With patience and faith nothing is permanent.

At least I am told.

typewrittenword:

by e.e. cummings

apoetreflects:

I tell myself the reasons for love are as large
              as the moon, but they are less:
the blue egg in a bird’s nest and the letter O—
              how tiny are the reasons we have
                            for not letting go
of love—this slow catapult of the soul.

—Steve Scafidi, second stanza of “Pop Pop Pop” from For Love of Common Words (Louisiana State University Press, 2006), Southern Messenger Poets Series

apoetreflects:

The Mad Scene

Again last night I dreamed the dream called Laundry.
In it, the sheets and towels of a life we were going to share,
The milk-stiff bibs, the shroud, each rag to be ever
Trampled or soiled, bled on or groped for blindly,
Came swooning out of an enormous willow hamper
Onto moon-marbly boards.  We had just met.  I watched
From outer darkness.  I had dressed myself in clothes
Of a new fiber that never stains or wrinkles, never
Wears thin.  The opera house sparkled with tiers
And tiers of eyes, like mine enlarged by belladonna,
Trained inward.  There I saw the cloud-clot, gust by gust,
Form, and the lightning bite, and the roan mare unloosen.
Fingers were running in panic over the flute’s nine gates.
Why did I flinch?  I loved you.  And in the downpour laughed
To have us wrung white, gnarled together, one
Topmost mordent of wisteria,
As the lean tree burst into grief.

—James Merrill, from In the House of Night: A Dream Reader edited by Christopher Navratil (Chronicle Books, 1997).  The poem was originally published in Nights and Days, 1960.

Painting: Taj Vaccarella, Wisteria in Rain, n.d.

mouths like wine speak liquored words: A Love Song

mouthlikewine:

What have I to say to you
When we shall meet?
Yet—
I lie here thinking of you. The stain of love
Is upon the world.
Yellow, yellow, yellow,
It eats into the leaves,
Smears with saffron
The horned branches that lean
Heavily
Against a smooth purple sky. There is no light—
Only a honey-thick...

apoetreflects:

from Notes on the Poem

1. The Foghorn

The poem one is writing is like a race horse
running at a pace partially of one’s choosing,
partially a function of conditions on the race course,
and partially determined by the horse’s breeding.

But the poem one is about to start,
the poem one is going to write
immediately, very soon, perhaps next March,
is like a foghorn calling mournfully in the night.

If only the moon would concede its guilt
and come to heel like an obedient dog.
If only the horse could transform into a yacht.
If only the poet were a sailor, or fog.

—Campbell McGrath, section 1 of 4-section poem “Notes on the Poem,” in The American Poetry Review (v. 41, no. 1, January/February 2012)

writeoneleaf:

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Snap. 

at attention

gaze instantly moved

from chosen activities

to attmting to find

the source

of the - 

Snap.

And again it goes

somewhen in the abyss

of the soft focus.

The lost abstract

of my peripheral.

How then do - 

Snap.

I hear it 

repetitions of 

the unknown.

For how can I hear-

Snap.

If I am alone

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant 
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.


--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

	- Elizabeth Bishop

 Unscheduled

is my life

never occuring

as it should.

I’m not one 

for planners

or agendas

but I just want

(deserve dammit)

for things to appear

in order,

in line.

No more 

“If it is

meant to be”

bullshit.

I want 

sweet distant eventual

in the 

barren bitter present.

I want (deserve

demand desire)

my winning prize.

This cosolation 

This pittance

of my needs

useless.

“embrace, the night”

As I lay, drunk by lack of sleep,

I long to hold someone in my arms

To feel the warmth of another encased in me

i need a person to hold onto

as this reality slips past

and the dream world begins.

I need a link between the two 

Someone to share that closeness

that tender act of prolonged contact

so under appreciated by the wham-bams

the late night calls for sweaty, sinful contact

My arms grow week with lacking

I do not want atrophy of muscle

and feeling to set in. 

Let me this small pleasure

If only for a night.

What         once

 was           still

stands      taller

than          ever.

we watch the smiling faces of
newly wedded wives and husbands,
and we smile.

We wish them well,
or
we wish them failure
or
we wish they would walk faster so we can all eat
but ultimately
we wish to be them

for in that moment,
their lives are the center of the world
their own private universe, a black tie affair

Regardless of intent
we wish to be them
to have that overwhelming passion
on a decision that we made. 

Good and bad