Saturday, November 24, 2012

When It's Tough...

Wow.




comfort, couple, hand, hands, love, lovers
*

Powerful stuff...

 

Be Near Me
Faiz Ahmed Faiz

 by Faiz Ahmed Faiz

 
Be near me now,
My tormenter, my love, be near me—
At this hour when night comes down,
When, having drunk from the gash of sunset, darkness comes
With the balm of musk in its hands, its diamond lancets,
When it comes with cries of lamentation,
                                             with laughter with songs;
Its blue-gray anklets of pain clinking with every step.
At this hour when hearts, deep in their hiding places,
Have begun to hope once more, when they start their vigil
For hands still enfolded in sleeves;
When wine being poured makes the sound
                                             of inconsolable children
                      who, though you try with all your heart,
                                             cannot be soothed.
When whatever you want to do cannot be done,
When nothing is of any use;
—At this hour when night comes down,
When night comes, dragging its long face,
                                             dressed in mourning,
Be with me,
My tormenter, my love, be near me.
 
 
-translated by-

Naomi Lazard

 

 -from-
Product Details

The True Subject

 


Thursday, November 22, 2012

A Very Noir Thanksgiving

kn kitsune noir » happy thanksgiving
*

And at the Kids Table...

Thanksgiving Comes But Once a Year 

thanksgiving party ideas - planning a thanksgiving dinner party - country living
*

Thornton W. Burgess


Thanksgiving comes but once a year,But when it comes it brings good cheer.For in my storehouse on this dayAre piles of good things hid away.Each day I've worked from early mornTo gather acorns, nuts, and corn,Till now I've plenty and to spareWithout a worry or a care.So light of heart the whole day long,I'll sing a glad Thanksgiving song.

In The Chaos, In The Stillness

 

Sometimes, even The Poetrycooker needs to be reminded of the Peace.

 

Happy Thanksgiving.

 
anxiety, anxious, bible, bible verse, christ
Add caption

Trot, baby,trot!

forest, marilyn monroe, nature, pin up, pinup
*

Happy! Happy!

acorn, america, autumn, fall, give thanks
*

Tuesday, November 20, 2012

On What to Say

How You Know

Nirrimi_hakanson_photography-11-600x397_large
*

 Joe Mills

 
How do you know if it’s love? she asks,
and I think if you have to ask, it’s not,
but I know this won’t help. I want to say
you’re too young to worry about it,
as if she has questions about Medicare
or social security, but this won’t help either.
“You’ll just know” is a lie, and one truth,
“when you still want to be with them
the next morning,” would involve too
many follow-up questions. The difficulty
with love, I want to say, is sometimes
you only know afterwards that it’s arrived
or left. Love is the elephant and we
are the blind mice unable to understand
the whole. I want to say love is this
desire to help even when I know I can’t,
just as I couldn’t explain electricity, stars,
the color of the sky, baldness, tornadoes,
fingernails, coconuts, or the other things
she has asked about over the years, all
those phenomena whose daily existence
seems miraculous. Instead I shake my head.
I don’t even know how to match my socks.
Go ask your mother. She laughs and says,
I did. Mom told me to come and ask you.

On Passion

Tumblr_mdjf0wi74d1qz4d4bo1_400_large
*

On the First Brush...

This poem is currently in the revision process. This is a rare a raw glimpse into a working piece. Feeling extremely vulnerable about it...

"Part IIV: Little Bones"

(from The Walkabout, A Space Junk Journey, by Katie Salter)


Monday, November 19, 2012

On Listening (Again)

On Listening


Posted this one twice before.

Couldn't resist a little poetic revival with a new picture

Thanks

*

by W.S. Merwin

Listen 
with the night falling we are saying thank you 
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings 
we are running out of the glass rooms 
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky 
and say thank you 
we are standing by the water thanking it 
smiling by the windows looking out 
in our directions 

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging 
after funerals we are saying thank you 
after the news of the dead 
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you 
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators 
remembering wars and the police at the door 
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you 
in the banks we are saying thank you 
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us 
our lost feelings we are saying thank you 
with the forests falling faster than the minutes 
of our lives we are saying thank you 
with the words going out like cells of a brain 
with the cities growing over us 
we are saying thank you faster and faster 
with nobody listening we are saying thank you 
we are saying thank you and waving 
dark though it is



-from Migration


On That Time

-Note:

The pictures in this post may be inappropriate for younger readers. . .
 
 
"Oh, dangling long sleeves in the Mercurochrome.
Parking her punch on her knees.
I’m not a joiner..."
 

(select Onward to read more)

 

Sunday, November 18, 2012

The Odd Drop...

I know I normally post about poetry, but I can't help it... just gotta join this movement.
*

Book Beauty




Pinned Image
*

On "Us"

Ben Kweller wrote this song for his wife on their anniversary.
The young Kweller is only 26, but has been with his wife for 13 years. . .
 
It makes sense. . . it seems to be more about young love - all the things that happen before life really gets in the way. I miss the idea of all these things. . .
Oh, to be young and in love again. . .
 
this song helps.
 

Thirteen 


cold, couple, mountain, nature
*
Ben Kweller
 
We've been in the rain
we've been on the mountain


we've been round the fire
In fancy hotels
drank water from farm wells
we sang with the choir

I kissed your dry lips
We jumped off the high cliffs
and splashed down below

skin to skin
in the salty river
made love in the shadow
woooah ooh

read books to each other
read the mind of the other
flew one thousand jets

we laughed and we cried
at movies and real life
and our ridiculous bets

we danced in the moonlight at midnight
we pressed against back doors and wood floors
and you never faked it

and frequently
we ignored our love
but we could never mistake it
oooh ooh

we met on the front porch
fell in love on the phone
without the physical wreck

you gave me the necklace
that used to hang
around your mothers neck

we questioned religions
fed bread to the pigeons
we learned how to pray

we stood by the ocean
turned our hearts in to one
we layed in bed all day
heeey

we skipped on the sidewalk
skipped stones on the water
we skipped town

we've seen the sunrise with new eyes
we've seen the damage of gossip and true lies
we've seen the sun go down

had passionate makeouts
and passionte freakouts
we built this world of our own

it was in the back of a taxi
when you told me you loved me
and that i wasnt alone

car, couple, life, lights
*

Preview or Purchase Thirteen on Amazon

On All Our Lives

Adult


Tumblr_m061z8uv831qhw0fxo1_500_large
*


 Ray Gonzalez

Everything was the apple and the glass of tea.
The mountain, the mold, the apron on the grandmother—
the neck of a brown baby holding its tiny head
to get rid of the black bees.
This is the end of a bad century,
the opening of a door that was never built into the chest.

A volume of loud wires coming out of the ground.
My grandfather rising from fifty-four years of death to see me.
The instrument carved out of bone.
A lock of hair from a famous seventeenth-century poet.
The disintegrating bible wishing it was another book.
A hanging arm sweeping the water out of the way.
My memory of flying through the tunnel that came out of nowhere.

A dog with wings and a cat with magic.
The sentiment and the sweat.
The blue chest of the working man and
the bare ankle of a young girl who drank beer.
The shadow of a young boy named Carlos and
the bare shoulders of a young girl who whispered.

The hunger of an older boy named José.
The hard work of a brother named Ramón with
a closeness and a disagreement among them.
A torn pair of work pants and
a stiff and muddy pair of gloves.
A pocket with two dollars crumbled inside.
A bare foot rubbing the bare back of a young girl.
The fourth can of beer.
The farmhouse that belonged to the family
and the chickens that were killed for food.
The cactus garden that killed two men when they fell in
and the pieces of green cactus that made them dream.
The green juice that started the earthquake,
the crushed flesh of cactus on their tongues
and its swelling that made them dream.
A garden hose washing away the blood.
The sparrow hovering over the trash can and
the back alley stinking of dog shit and drunken men.
Falling feathers interpreted for what they bring.

A church next door full of sermons and howling black faces.
The corner of the house where a young boy went to hide.
A single strand of hair found in a high school yearbook,
the forgotten idea that hiding it in there would lead to a different life.
The piano wounded by stones falling out of the cottonwood.
The willow tree spreading over the entire front yard
and the tiny white balls of gum that fell out of it one day.

The smell of shadows, trains, humor, tumbleweeds,
ice, empty parking lots, one or two torn knees,
a baseball glove, the first guy to cross the finish line,
the fear, the dread and the skill of escaping
so no one would start a list of smells.

Fear melted the memory of a lost boy.
The old house, the rosary around the neck,
the crushed dog in the road—
a sudden calling from behind to warn him
to come in and be still.
Who recalls how this ended when the men
built their ships and invaded to change the outcome?

The right to cry out and wait a whole century.
The embers, the lone piano, the oil lamps
damaged by a dream.
The ambition in the spine.
Who will insist on tapping the window to show
how easy it is to delay the next hundred years?
-from Consideration of the Guitar

Saturday, November 17, 2012

On Grace


 

A List of Praises' 

paper, bright, grass, hope
*

Anne Porter


Give praise with psalms that tell the trees to sing,
Give praise with Gospel choirs in storefront churches,
Mad with the joy of the Sabbath, 
Give praise with the babble of infants, who wake with the sun,
Give praise with children chanting their skip-rope rhymes, 
A poetry not in books, a vagrant mischievous poetry 
living wild on the Streets through generations of children.

Give praise with the sound of the milk-train far away 
With its mutter of wheels and long-drawn-out sweet whistle
As it speeds through the fields of sleep at three in the morning,
Give praise with the immense and peaceful sigh
Of the wind in the pinewoods, 
At night give praise with starry silences. 

Give praise with the skirling of seagulls 
And the rattle and flap of sails 
And gongs of buoys rocked by the sea-swell
Out in the shipping-lanes beyond the harbor. 
Give praise with the humpback whales, 
Huge in the ocean they sing to one another.
 
Give praise with the rasp and sizzle of crickets, katydids and cicadas, 
Give praise with hum of bees, 
Give praise with the little peepers who live near water.
When they fill the marsh with a shimmer of bell-like cries
We know that the winter is over. 

Give praise with mockingbirds, day's nightingales.
Hour by hour they sing in the crepe myrtle 
And glossy tulip trees
On quiet side streets in southern towns.
 
Give praise with the rippling speech
Of the eider-duck and her ducklings
As they paddle their way downstream
In the red-gold morning 
On Restiguche, their cold river,
Salmon river, 
Wilderness river. 

Give praise with the whitethroat sparrow.
Far, far from the cities, 
Far even from the towns, 
With piercing innocence 
He sings in the spruce-tree tops,
Always four notes 
And four notes only. 

Give praise with water, 
With storms of rain and thunder 
And the small rains that sparkle as they dry,
And the faint floating ocean roar 
That fills the seaside villages, 
And the clear brooks that travel down the mountains 

And with this poem, a leaf on the vast flood,
And with the angels in that other country.
-from Living Things

Friday, November 16, 2012

On Listening

Posted this one before.

Couldn't resist a little poetic revival with a new picture

Think heartbeat...

Thanks

*

 

by W.S. Merwin

 
Listen 
with the night falling we are saying thank you 
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings 
we are running out of the glass rooms 
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky 
and say thank you 
we are standing by the water thanking it 
smiling by the windows looking out 
in our directions 

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging 
after funerals we are saying thank you 
after the news of the dead 
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you 
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators 
remembering wars and the police at the door 
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you 
in the banks we are saying thank you 
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us 
our lost feelings we are saying thank you 
with the forests falling faster than the minutes 
of our lives we are saying thank you 
with the words going out like cells of a brain 
with the cities growing over us 
we are saying thank you faster and faster 
with nobody listening we are saying thank you 
we are saying thank you and waving 
dark though it is



-from Migration


Thursday, November 15, 2012

Keep Calm and . . .


Free-thanksgiving-version-keep-calm-and-carry-on-printable_large
*

As are Most. . .


*
 

On Gratitude

With Thanksgiving just  about a week away,
The Poetrycooker celebrates the blessings of life.
 
Thankful Bunting
*
Let's start with you, my readers, my patrons - lovers of love, of beauty and chaos, pain and joy.
 
 Here's hoping that you and yours have a plentiful, peaceful, blessed time together!
Love to you all, and safe travels wherever you may roam.

 

Monday, November 12, 2012

Infinite.

source unknown
 

For The Soliders

Romance

 
*

by Charles Reznikoff


The troopers are riding, are riding by
the troopers are riding to kill and die
that a clean flag may cleanly fly.

They touch the dust in their homes no more,
they are clean of the dirt of shop and store,
and they ride out clean to war.


-Explore More

So It Goes...

 

Again a Solstice

http://www.behance.net/fernandolopezc
*

Jennifer Chang

 
It is not good to think
of everything as a mistake. I asked 
for bacon in my sandwich, and then 

I asked for more. Mistake.
I told you the truth about my scar: 

I did not use a knife. I lied 
about what he did to my faith 
in loneliness. Both mistakes.

That there is always a you. Mistake. 
Faith in loneliness, my mother proclaimed,

is faith in self. My instinct, a poor polaris.
Not a mistake is the blue boredom 
of a summer lake. O mud, sun, and algae!

We swim in glittering murk. 
I tread, you tread. There are children

testing the deep end, shriek and stroke, 
the lifeguard perilously close to diving. 
I tried diving once. I dove like a brick. 

It was a mistake to ask the $30 prophet
for a $20 prophecy. A mistake to believe.

I was young and broke. I swam
in a stolen reservoir then, not even a lake. 
Her prophesy: from my vagrant exertion 

I'll die at 42. Our dog totters across the lake, 
kicks the ripple. I tread, you tread.

What does it even mean to write a poem? 
It means today 
I'm correcting my mistakes.

It means I don't want to be lonely.


image preview
-explore Chang at The Poetry Society of America.


Never Again...


Down in the Valley

4595085161_aed26a3b9d_large
*

 Joshua Mehigan

It was her first time coming home from college.
She headed downtown for a drink or two.
Her girlfriend went home early. That was Christmas.
Now, under sapling pine trees in the clearing,
snowdrops are coming back to their old places.
They had been gone a lifetime. Now they stand,
poised like a choir on the verge of singing:
Nature is just. There’s nothing left to fear.
The worst thing that can happen happened here.
 


 

Saturday, November 10, 2012

What's It Like?

Like This

36995e51e8fc9b489dacfbf110b682f17a55a4e3_large
*

Rumi

Like This

If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,

Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,

Like this.

If anyone wants to know what "spirit" is,
or what "God’s fragrance" means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.

Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.

Like this.

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.

Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means
to "die for love," point
here.
If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.

This tall.

The soul sometimes leaves the body, the returns.
When someone doesn’t believe that,
walk back into my house.

Like this.

When lovers moan,
they’re telling our story.

Like this.

I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.

Like this.

When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.

Like this.

How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?
Huuuuu.

How did Jacob’s sight return?
Huuuu.

A little wind cleans the eyes.

Like this.
When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he’ll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us

Like this.
 



An Erotic Shyness

About Face
*

by Alice Fulton


 
Because life's too short to blush,
I keep my blood tucked in.
I won't be mortified
by what I drive or the flaccid
vivacity of my last dinner party.
I take my cue from statues posing only
in their shoulder pads of snow: all January
you can see them working on their granite tans.

That I woke at an ungainly hour,
stripped of the merchandise that clothed me,
distilled to pure suchness,
means not enough to anyone for me
to confess.  I do not suffer
from the excess of taste
that spells embarrassment:
mothers who find their kids unseemly
in their condom earrings,
girls cringing to think
they could be frumpish as their mothers.
Though the late nonerotic Elvis
in his studded gut of jumpsuit
made everybody squeamish, I admit.
Rule one: the King must not elicit pity.

Was the audience afraid of being tainted
--this might rub off on me--
or were they--surrendering--
what a femme word--feeling
solicitous--glimpsing their fragility
in his reversible purples
and unwholesome goldish chains?

At least embarrassment is not an imitation.
It's intimacy for beginners,
the orgasm no one cares to fake.
I almost admire it.  I almost wrote despise.
-from Sensual Math

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Got 99 Problems. . .

 Oh, dear, sometimes bitchiness is just damn awesome.
 
red hair shades-every red hair shade imaginable
 
 
"Romantic? Hemingway? He was an abusive, alcoholic misogynist who squandered half  of his life hanging around Picasso trying to nail his leftovers."
10 Things I Hate About You
 
 
"Halloween is the one night a year when girls can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it."
Mean Girls

 

"Grow up Heather, bulimia's so '87."
Heathers
 
"Dawson? He's saving himself for Joey. Or old age, whichever comes first."
Dawson's Creek

On Hunger

Continuity

 
Tumblr_maie080bfi1qis9hro1_500_large
weheartit

A.R. Ammons

I've pressed so
far away from
my desire that

if you asked
me what I
want I would,

accepting the harmonious
completion of the
drift, say annihilation,

probably.






 

Beautiful

Tumblr_lovtjfmbq11qbj9dao1_500_large_large
source unkown

This picture reminds me of my beautiful Mamma.

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Onward is Everywhere

 
Tumblr_m8hqlcke6j1qk8wsio1_500_large
 

"It is just an illusion we have here on Earth that one moment follows another one, like beads on a string, and that once a moment is gone it is gone forever."

-Slaughterhouse-Five,
Kurt Vonnegut

 
Slaughterhouse-Five



Love in the Afternoon

536003_109034215918436_1305528537_n_large
Add caption

Poet Wheel

Adam’s Curse
book, constellations, map, stars
*
William Butler Yeats

 

We sat together at one summer’s end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, ‘A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.’
And thereupon
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There’s many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, ‘To be born woman is to know—
Although they do not talk of it at school—
That we must labour to be beautiful.’
I said, ‘It’s certain there is no fine thing
Since Adam’s fall but needs much labouring.
There have been lovers who thought love should be
So much compounded of high courtesy
That they would sigh and quote with learned looks
Precedents out of beautiful old books;
Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.’

We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time’s waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.

I had a thought for no one’s but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we’d grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.