Looking for a lady to take the catbird seat with authority and help me
reenact the You Tube video: leszorítós csajharc az apartmanban .
Looking for that free-spirited lady who likes this kind
of control. Help me please and I'll be your very
very very best FWB.
A Secret Life (Stephen Dunn)
Why you need to have one
is not much more mysterious than
why you don't say what you think
at the birth of an ugly baby.
Or, you've just made love
and feel you'd rather have been
in a dark booth where your partner
was nodding, whispering yes, yes,
you're brilliant. The secret life
begins early, is kept alive
by all that's unpopular
in you, all that you know
a Baptist, say, or some other
accountant would object to.
It becomes what you'd most protect
if the government said you can protect
one thing, all else is ours.
When you write late at night
it's like a small fire
in a clearing, it's what
radiates and what can hurt
if you get too close to it.
It's why your silence is a kind of truth.
Even when you speak to your best friend,
the one who'll never betray you,
you always leave out one thing;
a secret life is that important.
Wild Geese (Mary Oliver)
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
when a body meets a body (my title for this poem by e.e. cummings):
i like my body when it is with your
body, It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like,slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric fur,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh....And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new.
(by me, my poem)
I'm tired of muscling
the consonant and the vowel,
pinning their syllables flat.
I wrestle the consonant
and tussle the vowel,
slapping them hard till
they curse and they howl,
pinning their pointy
syllables flat as a dime,
holding them down, making
them submit to rhyme.
No more. No more.
Give me firm flesh.
Give me hard bone.
This Kansas of words on paper:
Too flat and too alone!
Instead, Mistress Emily,
fill my eyes with
your soft curves,
your buxom thighs.
Wrestle me down,
plant your knees firmly
on my unworthy shoulders.
One! Two! Three!
The match is over.
Mistress Emily, take my
body to dominate.
Pray let me be the
poem beneath your weight.
The Pun Also Rises---
Riddle: what does Mahatma Gandhi have in common with Mary Poppins?
Mahatma Gandhi was known for walking hundreds of miles in his bare feet.
Consequently he developed incredibly thick calluses on his feet, comparable
to the soles of many boots. He also ate lightly and fasted often, which left
him frail and gave him chronically bad breath.
Do you know what this made him? A super-calloused fragile mystic hexed
by halitosis.
Yes (William Stafford)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.
It could you know. That's why we wake
and look out--no guarantees
in this life.
But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
like evening.
Ode To The MaggotBy Yusef Komunyakaa
--------------------------------------------------------
Brother of the blowfly
And godhead, you work magic
Over battlefields,
In slabs of bad pork
And flophouses. Yes, you
Go to the root of all things.
You are sound & mathematical.
Jesus, Christ, you're merciless
With the truth. Ontological & lustrous,
You cast spells on beggars & kings
Behind the stone door of Caesar's tomb
Or split trench in a field of ragweed.
No decree or creed can outlaw you
As you take every living thing apart. Little
Master of earth, no one gets to heaven
Without going through you first.
SONNET 57 (William Shakespeare)
---------------------------------------------------------------
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time* at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are how happy you make those.
So true a fool is love that in your will,
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.
Vex Me
by Barbara Hamby
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
Vex me, O Night, your stars stuttering like a stuck jukebox,
put a spell on me, my bones atremble at your tabernacle
of rhythm and blues. Call out your archers, chain me
to a wall, let the stone fortress of my body fall
like a rabid fox before an army of dogs. Rebuke me,
rip out my larynx like a lazy snake and feed it to the voiceless
throng. For I am midnight's girl, scouring unlit streets
like Persephone stalking her swarthy lord. Anoint me
with oil, make me greasy as a fast-food fry. Deliver me
like a pizza to the snapping crack-house hours between
one and four. Build me an ark, fill it with prairie moths,
split-winged fritillaries, blue-bottle flies. Stitch
me a gown of taffeta and quinine, starlight and nightsoil,
and when the clock tocks two, I'll be the belle of the malaria ball.
