A Poetry Post For Freya

[darkhairedgirl]

somewhere I have never travelled,gladly beyond – e. e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond

any experience,your eyes have their silence:

in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,

or which i cannot touch because they are too near

 

your slightest look easily will unclose me

though i have closed myself as fingers,

you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens

(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

 

or if your wish be to close me, i and

my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,

as when the heart of this flower imagines

the snow carefully everywhere descending;

 

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals

the power of your intense fragility:whose texture

compels me with the color of its countries,

rendering death and forever with each breathing

 

(i do not know what it is about you that closes

and opens;only something in me understands

the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

 

Untitled – Rainier Maria Rilke

 

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone

    enough

to truly consecrate the hour.

I am much too small in this world, yet not small

    enough

to be to you just object and thing,

dark and smart.

I want my free will and want it accompanying

the path which leads to action;

and want during times that beg questions,

where something is up,

to be among those in the know,

or else be alone.

 

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,

never be blind or too old

to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.

I want to unfold.

Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;

for there I would be dishonest, untrue.

I want my conscience to be

true before you;

want to describe myself like a picture I observed

for a long time, one close up,

like a new word I learned and embraced,

like the everday jug,

like my mother's face,

like a ship that carried me along

through the deadliest storm.
 

 

Grief Calls Us to the Things of This World - Sherman Alexie

 

The eyes open to a blue telephone

In the bathroom of this five-star hotel.

           

I wonder whom I should call? A plumber,

Proctologist, urologist, or priest?

 

Who is most among us and most deserves

The first call? I choose my father because

 

He's astounded by bathroom telephones.

I dial home. My mother answers. "Hey, Ma,”

 

I say, "Can I talk to Poppa?" She gasps, 

And then I remember that my father

 

Has been dead for nearly a year. "Shit, Mom,"

I say. "I forgot he’s dead. I’m sorry—

 

How did I forget?" "It’s okay," she says.

"I made him a cup of instant coffee

 

This morning and left it on the table—

Like I have for, what, twenty-seven years—

 

And I didn't realize my mistake

Until this afternoon." My mother laughs

 

At the angels who wait for us to pause

During the most ordinary of days

 

And sing our praise to forgetfulness

Before they slap our souls with their cold wings.

 

Those angels burden and unbalance us.

Those fucking angels ride us piggyback.

 

Those angels, forever falling, snare us

And haul us, prey and praying, into dust.

 

 

Untitled – Gregory Orr

 

This is what was bequeathed us:

This earth the beloved left

And, leaving,

Left to us.

 

No other world

But this one:

Willows and the river

And the factory

With its black smokestacks.

 

No other shore, only this bank

On which the living gather.

 

No meaning but what we find here.

No purpose but what we make.

 

That, and the beloved’s clear instructions:

Turn me into song; sing me awake.

 

 

Comments

[freya-sacksen.livejournal.com]

*hugs right back*