Posts tagged with ‘poetry’
More Fall Music and some T.S. Eliot for good measure.
Jane, who has been dead for 31 years,
never could have
imagined that I would write a screenplay of our drinking
that it would be made into a movie
that a beautiful movie star would play her
I can hear Jane now: “A beautiful movie star? oh,
for Christ’s sake!”
Jane, that’s show biz, so go back to sleep, dear, because
no matter how hard they tried they
just couldn’t find anybody exactly like
and neither canBarfly. Charles Bukowski. This poem shatters me.
‘Let It Enfold You,’ a poem by Charles Bukowski, read by RM.
'Nirvana' A poem by Charles Bukowski, read by Tom Waits
Still I Rise by Maya Angelou
You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? ‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I’ll rise.
Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries.
Does my haughtiness offend you? Don’t you take it awful hard ‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines Diggin’ in my own back yard.
You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I’ve got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame I rise Up from a past that’s rooted in pain I rise I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.
I wrote this when I was 18 or 19 and graduating high school. I always had a problem with “growing up” and I think this was a response to that. It is about losing one’s self when growing older in years. It is about only being able to dream about being free then waking up to a reality of cold coffee and cubicle life - something that I am terrified of. I framed this and gave it to my dad for Christmas one year.
Delicate, floating on clouds of white and wings of the friendliest dove.
Sailing through the breeze into the harbor amongst the golden ships,
Children laughing as they push each other off the plank they imagine to be there.
Flaunting eye patches of midnight and shrouding little bodies in red and white stripes.
Up and down, jumping and then taking flight.
Playing Peter Pan with the old man next door.
He never did grow up.
Little scratches cover little knees.
Not bad enough to require a band aide.
Whistling and hooting.
Diving into the frigid twirling pools of pale blue and turquoise,
Laughing in transit.
Happiness and truth in their smiling cheeks of red.
Days of youth refuse to be numbered.
Running as far away from that ticking crocodile as possible.
Heavy clouds of gray carry the children off to lands covered in thick black tar.
Removing the eye patches and throwing them into the rush of the sea.
They jump off the deep end and into red ties and cranberry socks.
Unforgiving khaki and corduroy.
Meetings, home late and up early.
Returning to the harbor and twirling pools only when the night is abandoned by even the moon.
The light of the day brings it all again.
Back to a reality of unenthusiastic mornings and deadlines to be reached.
Longing to dance with the butterflies and sing with the crickets.
The opera singer of life carries a bad tune.
Children stirring in the night,
dreaming of playing in those far off lands that they can still reach. Just maybe if they focus on it long enough!
No time to think of childish things.
All the time in the world.
Days of youth refuse to be numbered.
Tegel to Shiphol.
6am in the air. Berlin to Amsterdam. Seat 7E.
Plastic wrapped cakes, plastic wrapped spoons, plastic wrapped earphones.
Plastic wrapped flight.
Bright blue flight attendants with plastic wrapped smiles. Tired eyes.
“Have a great flight” “Hallo” “Hello” “Guten Morgen” “Good Morning”.
Taking off still in the dark, dawn is somewhere beyond the horizon.
“Coffee” “Sugar” “Water” “Tea” “Tequila?” “No” “Cream” “Orange Juice”
Sleeping with eyes wide open, mouth ajar too. Bumpy turbulence, quick and a baby crying. Loud.
The sun greets us and brilliantly illuminates the white dense sea of clouds below. My eyes go for a swim in them.
Fuel exhaust, fumes create massive waves in the air. Rippling. Diving. Dancing.
Crumpled trash, discarded coffee cups and more plastic wrap. Seat belt sign, prepare for landing. “Flight attendants take your seats.”
Touch down, smooth. Schipol. Amsterdam.
Mind your step. “Have a great day.”
The spoken word bit to my poem below.
Original » here.
This is a poem I wrote in Lisbon. It is about everything or perhaps nothing at all. In the past. - Natalie
There is a place somewhere inside my heart that only beats for you. Blood boiling and pulsating pounding rhythms, thumping for you. My cold jet-lagged heart is yours. I do not know what love is. I do not know what it looks like. I do not know what it tastes like or feels like or smells like, but I breathe you and I taste you and you are sweet smelling dripping in honey.
You dictate me easily and I weep for you and I smile for you and I am confused by you and all I think of is you. Every puddle reflects your image and warmth, you are in every store window and in every sweet smell.
You are full of light - there is a darkness there but it is hidden behind your smile. Hidden far away from anyone but yourself and that is where you will always keep it and I know this. You exhaust me and invigorate me and I can’t think around you and I think too much as well.
I think I met you somewhere in my dreams because you will never be a part of my reality. You live in my dreams. You consume me.
Still, I do not know love. I only know your eyes and how they cut me so deep.
Spoken word bit here.