Words

Just in case there was something prior, More on words I dislike:

  • Eponymous. It seems so pretentious. Why not just say what it is? The title of whatever is the same as the person I’m writing about. Well OK, in fewer words. Or maybe it just annoys me as I had to look it up so many times as I kept forgetting what it meant. The word is just plain unfriendly.
  • Siblings. Hissssss. A cold word, an almost but not quite harsh word. It doesn’t sound at all like brother or sister. Maybe it’s good to use if you don’t like your family.
  • Facetious. Another pretentious word. It’s rarely spoken unless it’s the only three-syllable word someone knows. And then it’s used often.

And something to note about Yeats:

  • He is the only poet I’m aware of who has many poem titles longer than the poem.
  • I love & adore many of his short poems. There’s none better than “When You are Old,” “The Mask,” and “A Deep-sworn Vow.” “Leda and the Swan” is so powerful it can quite make you shudder. That poem is posted in full under “Myth and Mystery” in this blog.
  • Of course the Center Will Not Hold…there is no center. (This I discovered within Meditation.) Go ahead—look for your center.

And then, because there are no better words than those we receive from Rumi:

And thus it is I leave us for the day—to go sit on the patio, the dog and I—to watch the Thunderstorm, aye, by and by.

Borrowing Inspiration

“And I’ll dance with you in Vienna,
I’ll be wearing a river’s disguise.
The hyacinth wild on my shoulder
my mouth on the dew of your thighs.
And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook,
with the photographs there and the moss.
And I’ll yield to the flood of your beauty,
my cheap violin and my cross.”

Leonard Cohen

“In Vienna I will dance with you
in a costume with
a river’s head.
See how the hyacinths line my banks!
I will leave my mouth between your legs,
my soul in photographs and lilies,
and in the dark wake of your footsteps,
my love, my love, I will have to leave
violin and grave, the waltzing ribbons”

Federico Garcia Lorca

****

The words and the music take my breath away, my soul jumps with joy. It doesn’t matter to me the obvious use of Lorca’s poem. I just want to give Lorca a little credit here. As TSEliot famously said: immature poets imitate but mature poets steal.

The Cohen photo & his words to the song were posted by Ravenous Butterflies.

Daughters

And Poems of Truth

“When your little girl
asks you if she’s pretty
your heart will drop like a wineglass
on the hardwood floor
part of you will want to say
of course you are, don’t ever question it
and the other part
the part that is clawing at
you
will want to grab her by her shoulders
look straight into the wells of
her eyes until they echo back to you
and say
you do not have to be if you don’t want to
it is not your job
both will feel right
one will feel better
she will only understand the first
when she wants to cut her hair off
or wear her brother’s clothes
you will feel the words in your
mouth like marbles
you do not have to be pretty if you don’t want to
it is not your job.”

Caitlyn Siehl

Posted by Ravenous Butterflies


Truth

Posted by Poetic Outlaws

“I feel my failure intensely
as if it were a vital organ
the gods grew from the side of my head.
You can’t cover it with a hat and I no longer
can sleep on that side it’s so tender.
I wasn’t quite faithful enough
to carry this sort of weight up the mountain.
When I took my vows at nineteen
I had no idea that gods were so merciless.
Fear makes for good servants
and bravery is fraudulent. When I awoke
I wasn’t awake enough.”
~ Jim Harrison

Jim Harrison

Although Jimmy boy was quite a rotter in his lifetime, wasn’t he. Not only that, even to his fans he became a bit of a dirty-old man. Too sad that, that so many men—with or without true artistic credentials—become such lechers when in the presence of the beautiful younger ones. Why do they consider that their value? Their right? Perhaps he is indeed right when he says he wasn’t awake enough.

And he wrote beautiful prose, published some fine books.

Because Lisa Died

She was a Bosch painting
Of mangled bodies deformed
And perverted into a nightmare
of her own screams
And
The meadows of Spring
Running through tall Indian grass
and daises and daffodils
And
A child of the Ether in skirts
Made of silver spider webs and butterfly wings

She was Hell itself anchored in
Despair and the flames of Demons
Rocked in the cradle of Doubt
Opened by a bloody knife
of her own wounds and scarred the same

She was a Poem of Light
And Smiles of soft shining fireflies,
Curls around an eternal face
Sparkled in diamonds and sunlight

She saved a life and killed a man
Ran full force across the world and
Dove off the cliffs unto the rocks
Unstoppable
Unbreathable
Unbearable

She searched for God
so she could punch Him
in the face,
Tear off His gowns to leave Him
Naked in His own blasphemy
of Creation
He Who created the Minotaur
As well as Theseus
Father of Evil, Tormentor of Souls

She wrote and Sang and Painted
She marched the stairs and
Laughed and cooked and baked
And Created her own music and Love
And
Still kept the unborn in jars
Fermented in the formaldehyde of
Alcohol underneath the floor

Until she became the Nightmare
Itself drowned alone in the vomit of her sins
And in the stream below the rocks her body broken
Where it can at last Sing out…
“So this is it? This is all ‘ya got?”

And she was all things

And she was nothing

And she wore boots so heavy
she could not leave the earth
her moans heard now only by Angels
who cry to God…our pain, her worth