Poetry and song and maybe culture

Thursday, December 01, 2005

Stephanie Strickland's The Red Virgin, a poem of Simone Weil

There Comes

If you do not fight it---if you look, just
look, steadily,
upon it,

there comes
a moment when you cannot do it,
if it is evil;

if good, a moment
when you cannot

Gustave Thibon, How Simone Weil Appeared to Me/3

Kisses and embraces disgusted her.
I never saw her cry.
She loved tobacco.
Of all the things belonging

to material life, tobacco
was the only one
she was almost certain
to accept. This smoke

has been transformed into pages
covered with writing
in my copybooks,
she said.
She was counting out one time

the money she had earned
harvesting grapes. I told her
I had no illusions about
the destination

of this sum, whereupon
she replied with disarming
spontaneity, But
I shall certainly also buy a few books.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

The painful poignancy of desire
(Postromantic poetry)

Claudia Moscovici


Eyes sparkling deep
Lightest of sleep
Mouth full of kisses
All that I'm missing
Hands that explore
Lips that adore
Don't hesitate
Forget your regret
Delve into me
Swim in my sea
Ride on my waves
Find all enclaves
Richest of life
Passion and strife
Full of emotion
To and fro motion
Flow like a stream
Color my dream
Show me desire
Lift me up higher
Take my breath away
With your gentle sway
Give me a pleasure
Beyond all measure
Shine from afar
Explode like a star


Concentric circles of expanding emotion
Fluttering wings of butterflies in motion
Light breath hastened by excitement
Trembling hands eager to find you
Soft body seeking your touch
Fine hair leaving waves in the sand
Warm lips melt your shyness away
Tears of love invite you to stay

My voyage to you

Delicate lips
Quivering under
My touch
The moistness I seek
Embraces me
Inviting and warm
Flickering tongue
Absorbed in the
Hollow of mouth
Lapping the shores
Of these lands
Made for love
I let the flow
And the movement
Of your breath
Warm up my life
As wondering hands
Explore on their own
Adored and familiar sites
The sweetness of your words

Give me the sweetness of your words
With the tip of your tongue
Let them glide into my mouth
Smoothly, wetly, generously
Let me savor the flavor of your thought
In the tingles that run through my being
In the feelings that condense into tears
Unarticulated, overwhelming, dense
Molecules of emotion too large
To flow through the pores of my skin
Pent up inside, but ready to burst
At your most delicate touch
At a barely whispered word
Into an unbearable surge of desire
Into the secret poetry that only
Our two bodies strained with the effort
Of an almost forgotten, soothing motion
That suckles the honey, the milk, and the spirit
From the sweetness of your words
Honeysuckle in the spring

When I was a little girl
My favorite season was spring
The breeze brushed
With its flowery scents
The dew off my skin
And my face bloomed
With an irrepressible smile
As I ran, greeting the wind
With all the joy I could express
Through the flowing
Uninhibited movements of my body
Out of breath, exhilirated
I would stop to touch the flowers
Breathing them through closed eyes
Bending over my favorite ones
Those little white stars
Twinkling among leafy ivy
Whose nectar I would suckle
Gently, smoothly, furtively
Pressing them between my lips
Savoring like a forbidden pleasure
The unforgettable taste, scent, feel
Of honeysuckle in the spring
That now, my love, only you can bring

Monday, October 10, 2005

C. Little, no less, I am always refreshed going to her site, photos and poetry and little bits of life.

i am a warrior
i am not at war
i am seeking peace.
i work for peace.
peace for us all.
peace for myself.
my struggles are your struggles.
my success is yours also.

i am a warrior.
the opponent is unseen.
i am a warrior.
the victory is not celebrated,
but felt.
the battles are bloodless
and brutal.
i am a warrior.
honor is my currency
and merchandise.

you are a warrior too.
your work is defined.
you proceed each day
until the sun drains you
and the moon cools you.
we all work together
as the best warriors do.
there is no war,
there is only living.
suit up!
time is passing.

Andrew Nagen
Boob Poem
Author Unknown

For years and years they told me,
Be careful of your breasts.
Don't ever squeeze or bruise them.
And give them monthly tests.

So I heeded all their warnings,
And protected them by law.
Guarded them very carefully,
And I always wore my bra.

After 30 years of astute care,
My gyno, Dr. Pruitt,
Said I should get a Mammogram.
"O.K." I said, 'let's do it."

"Stand up here real close" she said,
(She got my boob in line),
"And tell me when it hurts," she said,
"Ah yes! Right there, that's fine."

She stepped upon a pedal,
I could not believe my eyes!
A plastic plate came slamming down,
My hooter's in a vise!

My skin was stretched and mangled,
From underneath my chin.
My poor boob was being squashed,
To Swedish Pancake thin.

Excruciating pain I felt,
Within it's vise-like grip.
A prisoner in this vicious thing,
My poor defenseless tit!

"Take a deep breath" she said to me,
Who does she think she's kidding?!?
My chest is mashed in her machine,
And woozy I am getting.

"There, that's good," I heard her say,
(The room was slowly swaying.)
"Now, let's have a go at the other one."
Have mercy, I was praying.

It squeezed me from both up and down,
It squeezed me from both sides.
I'll bet SHE'S never had this done,
To HER tender little hide.

Next time that they make me do this,
I will request a blindfold.
I have no wish to see again,
My knockers getting steam rolled.

If I had no problem when I came in,
I surely have one now.
If there had been a cyst in there,
It would have gone "ker-pow!"

This machine was created by a man,
Of this, I have no doubt.
I'd like to stick his balls in there,
And see how THEY come out!

"Whoever thought up the word "Mammogram"? Every time I hear it, I think I'm supposed to put my breast in an envelope and send it to someone. "
-- Jan King


"For my sister's 50th birthday, I sent her a singing mammogram."
-- Steven Wright


Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Texas Love Song
Elton John and Bernie Taupin

I heard from a friend you'd been messing around
With a cute little thing I'd been dating uptown
Well I don't know if I like that idea much
Well you'd better stay clear I might start acting rough

You out of town guys sure think you're real keen
Think all of us boys are homespun and green
But that's wrong my friend so get this through your head
We're tough and we're Texan with necks good and red

So it's Ki yi yippie yi yi
You long hairs are sure gonna die
Our American home was clean till you came
And kids still respected the president's name

And the eagle still flew in the sky
Hearts filled with national pride
Then you came along with your drug-crazy songs
Goddamit you're all gonna die

How dare you sit there and drink all our beer
Oh it's made for us workers who sweat spit and swear
The minds of our daughters are poisoned by you
With your communistic politics and them negro blues

Well I'm gonna quit talking and take action now
Run all of you fairies clean out of this town
Oh I'm dog tired of watching you mess up our lives
Spending the summertime naturally high

Thursday, August 18, 2005

Salon.com - "We sing the body electric..."

Sometimes I feel
Bad about the way I
Oh well. At least I can
Write poetry.
It's easy!

-- Anonymous staff member from the Academy of American Poets

and more at link.

Soul Works
What van Gogh saw

by Raphaelle Kosek

Van Gogh saw
the way our hearts burn
like the pinwheel stars
swirling in the night-mad sky,

the way our spirits,
bent and bruised in life's field,
reach endlessly upward
like the cypress trees
full of knotty whorls
curling upwards to mingle with,
and plead benediction from,
the sea-waved sky,

the way wild-maned sunflowers
are almost dizzy with themselves
and the power of heavy seed
flaming within them.

Lose an ear,
lose your mind.
Lose your life,

while your resolve scatters
like crows over the wheatfield
and Lazarus forever blooms
under a fiery sun.

Raphaelle Kosek writes, teaches, and celebrates in the beautiful
Hudson Valley of New York. This poem appeared in the July-August
1997 issue of Sojourners.: http://go.sojo.net/ct/T1axZE11OXcn/

+ Read more about Vincent van Gogh in Sojourners:
http://go.sojo.net/ct/TdaxZE11OXc8/ magazine

Friday, February 04, 2005

From Human Wishes by Robert Hass

"Privilege Of Being"

... clutching each other with old, invented
forms of grace and clumsy gratitude, ready
to be alone again, or dissatisfied, or merely
companionable like the couples on the summer beach
reading magazine articles about intimacy between the sexes
to themselves, and to each other,
and to the immense, illiterate, consoling angels.

"Santa Barbara Road"

Household verses: "Who are you?"
the rubber duck in my hand asked Kristin
once, while she was bathing, three years old.
"Kristin," she said, laughing, her delicious
name, delicious self. "That's just your name,"
the duck said. "Who are you?" "Kristin,"
she said. "Kristin's a name. Who are you?"
the duck asked. She said, shrugging,
"Mommy, Daddy, Leif."


... You restrain me to the bed.
I would go there willingly, open
myself to you,
but the bonding is exponential to reality,
as if my mind could be changed from this course.
It cannot.
The blindfold lowers itself to my eyes,
a vital sense stilled,
conscious gentled.
Vulnerability is the midwife of control,
subtlety the offspring,
waiting, the dilation of anxiety,
measured breathing
as the will is given up, delivered.
You lose focus,
lesser senses become major,
alert sentinels of anticipation,
gentle stroking here, probing there,
hungry teeth gnawing a nipple.
Then nothing....
until the miniature glacier
begins its journey down the valley...

By Bill Cowee (enslaveme4life@aol.com)

Why did you vanish

into the empty sky?

Even the fragile snow,

when it falls,

falls in this world.

Izumi Shikibu
From Open Mind - by Diane Mariechild

Izumi's poem portrays the sorrow of a

mother mourning the death of her daughter.

The pain is palpable. There is no disguise.

There is no attempt to cover the pain

with intellectualization. We can watch to

see where the snow lands as it falls. We

can't see what happens after death. Any thoughts

we have about what might happen are just that,

thoughts. It is only our ability to directly

experience this world, the sorrow and the joy,

that brings us to a space between intellect

and emotion, beyond hope and sorrow.

el - C. Little, no less, who has a great blog of photographs, poetry, her life and sometimes politics, had this. I was out with some people the other day and the conversation turned to haikus and short image poems like this that looked so easy but weren't.

Sunday, January 02, 2005

What Ever Happened to Peace On Earth - Willie Nelson

There's so many things going on in the world
Babies dying
Mothers crying
How much oil is one human life worth
And what ever happened to peace on earth

We believe everything that they tell us
They're gonna' kill us
So we gotta' kill them first
But I remember a commandment
Thou shall not kill
How much is that soldier's life worth
And whatever happened to peace on earth

And the bewildered herd is still believing
Everything we've been told from our birth
Hell they won't lie to me
Not on my own damn TV
But how much is a liar's word worth
And whatever happened to peace on earth

So I guess it's just
Do unto others before they do it to you
Let's just kill em' all and let God sort em' out
Is this what God wants us to do

(Repeat Bridge)
And the bewildered herd is still believing
Everything we've been told from our birth
Hell they won't lie to me
Not on my own damn TV
But how much is a liar's word worth
And whatever happened to peace on earth

Now you probably won't hear this on your radio
Probably not on your local TV
But if there's a time, and if you're ever so inclined
You can always hear it from me
How much is one picker's word worth
And whatever happened to peace on earth

But don't confuse caring for weakness
You can't put that label on me
The truth is my weapon of mass protection
And I believe truth sets you free

And the bewildered herd is still believing
Everything we've been told from our birth
Hell they won't lie to me
Not on my own damn TV
But how much is a liar's word worth
And whatever happened to peace on earth.