Tag Archives: Poetry

To his Own Beloved Self The Author Dedicates These Lines – Mayakovski

22 Jan

Ponderous. The chimes of a clock.
“Render unto Caesar … render unto God…”
But where’s
someone like me to dock?
Where’11 I find a lair?

Were I
like the ocean of oceans little,
on the tiptoes of waves I’d rise,
I’d strain, a tide, to caress the moon.
Where to find someone to love
of my size,
the sky too small for her to fit in?

Were I poor
as a multimillionaire,
it’d still be tough.
What’s money for the soul? –
thief insatiable.
The gold
of all the Californias isn’t enough
for my desires’ riotous horde.

I wish I were tongue-tied,
like Dante or Petrarch,
able to fire a woman’s heart,
reduce it to ashes with verse-filled pages!
My words
and my love
form a triumphal arch:
through it, in all their splendour,
leaving no trace, will pass
the inamoratas of all the ages!

Were I
as quiet as thunder,
how I’d wail and whine!
One groan of mine
would start the world’s crumbling cloister shivering.
And if
I’d end up by roaring
with all of its power of lungs and more –
the comets, distressed, would wring their hands
and from the sky’s roof
leap in a fever.

If I were dim as the sun,
night I’d drill
with the rays of my eyes,
and also
all by my lonesome,
radiant self
build up the earth’s shriveled bosom.

On I’ll pass,
dragging my huge love behind me.
On what
feverish night, deliria-ridden,
by what Goliaths was I begot –
I, so big
and by no one needed?

V. Mayakovski, 1916



poem: east of where i stand

7 Oct

my brain fills
with scattershot landscapes,
tumble weeds blow dead
across long flat rivers of black asphalt,
trees and shrubs bend from a ceaseless wind,
dust carves veins atop dry clay river bottoms –
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poem: sublimation

2 Oct

poem: sublimation
i am a 1950s suburban housewife
standing at a door,
knowing but not wanting him to return after a day at an office,
or an afternoon with his whore;
alone in a kitchen,
masturbating to memories,
lost in a fog of anti-depressants and household chores,
Leave It to Beaver beatitudes
and paint-by-numbers Barbie play sets –
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poem: angels of disrepair

1 Oct

and still the whispers echo
long after the rope’s been cut,
bodies removed,
sinners and saints retired from the town square,
the center of the world,
the center of life,
the very core of it all –

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poem: atop the bones of dead saints

27 Sep

we place stones one by one
atop the bones of saints
felled by the voices of disbelief
and disintegration –
and no more to dance
in fields laid flat by the footsteps
of hooligans and martyrs,
carrying their flames and fears
within the clench of trembling hands –

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poem: fields afire

27 Sep

there is no silence at the center
of a garden filled with dead flowers
and falling leaves;
a garden surrounded by armor and brick
and the bones of soldiers gone so long from us now –

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poem: trapped

15 Sep

there’s dust on the last page of my memories –
i am trapped within the branches of an unforgiving tree
chased by black and white flickering images –

a soft voice drills deep within my discontent –
where i stand the water stills into a silver panarama –
her face still holds me, her hands still touch my skin –

i never received a passing grade –
a test written in braille, back in days when i could still see –

a tremor in my hands reminds me of my disrespect –
she said she loved me,

once, a long time ago –

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review: Crunked reviewed by David McLean in Feb 2011

14 Sep

review: Crunked reviewed by David McLean in Feb 2011

Note: This is from February 2010 originally at Clockwise Cat. I am not sure what version of Crunked this is based on, but here you go…
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poem: shattered highway

14 Sep

shattered highway

…and I watch a broken down road rumble
beneath my wheels, the desert wind whipping
through my thinning hair,
memories of love lost and battles won
drift through my head,
a dull gray moon lifts effortlessly into a waning sky –
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poem – absolution

13 Sep


just after sunset
driving west
open highway
cool breeze
lavender skies
and a buzzing fly for a companion

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poems – shorties

13 Sep

not into it
a soft breeze blows in across the backyard
every day around 4 pm –
trees bend, swirl and drift lazy across blue velvet skies –
fish boil across the top of the pond –

i find my spot on the back step –
smoke another cigarette –
trace back through the roots of my day
searching for a small fragment to tuck away –

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three poems about a girl named Hannah –

30 Jun

when sleeping means sleep when we sleep together
an incessant knock wakes me at 2 am –
Hannah stands frozen in tears –
I let her in, sit at the edge of a bed,
and hold her –
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poem: alone on a path that leads to the back of my mind

5 Apr

the blinking cursor damns me –
– some days i cannot write
– some days i cannot speak
– some days words have no meaning
and an incredulous sky opens with sighs of sorrow,
consumes me,
swallows me whole without thought or consequence
and i find myself wandering alone
on a path that leads to the back of my mind –
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poem: running away

5 Apr

i keep tripping down this lazy highway
in search of nothing more than the next step
another chapter, another verse, another line
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poem: terminal

18 Mar

in a rich part of town.
a town i used to wear my mask:
lived day-to-day
buried in games of keeping up and keeping up –
fucked soccer moms built for revenge –
snorted dope in spider-web corners of mercurial garages –
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