(no subject)

[redheartleaf.livejournal.com]

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind
and floats downstream till the current ends
and dips his wing in the orange suns rays and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
can seldom see through his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat
to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the
sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat
to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.


Angelou, Maya. Poems from the Planet Earth.

Maya Angelou (1928- ) was born Marguerite Johnson in St. Louis. She was reared in segregated rural Arkansas. Angelou wears many hats: poet, historian, author, actress, playwright, civil-rights activist, and director. Her lectures carry her throughout the U.S. and abroad. She has been a Reynolds professor of American Studies at Wake Forest University in North Carolina, and has published ten best selling books and numerous articles for which she has been awarded Pulitzer Prize and National Book Award nominations.

At the request of President Clinton, who knew of her personally and chose her with no reservations, she wrote and delivered a poem at his 1993 presidential inauguration. Angelou speaks French, Spanish, Italian, and West African Fanti. After marrying a South African freedom fighter, she lived in Cairo where she served as editor of The Arab Observer, the only English-language news weekly in the Middle East. In Ghana, she was feature editor of The African Review and taught at the University of Ghana.

In the 1960's, at the request of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Angelou became the northern coordinator for the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. She was appointed by President Gerald Ford to the Bicentennial Commission and by President Jimmy Carter to the National Commission on the Observance of International Women's Year.

In the film industry, Maya Angelou has established herself through her script writing and directing, serving as a model for black women. Her best-selling autobiographical account of her childhood, "I Know Why the Cage Bird Sings," won critical acclaim in 1970 and was featured as a two hour television special on CBS. She wrote and produced the prize-winning (Golden Eagle Award) documentary "Afro-Americans in the Arts." She received Emmy Award nominations for her acting in Roots, as well as for her screenplay writing of "Georgia," which was the first film by a black woman.

The poem "I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings," takes its name from Angelou's famous autobiography.

(no subject)

[greenhoodloxley.livejournal.com]

The Splender Falls
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying
Blow, bugle; answers, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying ,dying

Billy Collins - Shoveling Snow With Buddha

[omletlove.livejournal.com]

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok
you would never see him doing such a thing,
tossing the dry snow over a mountain
of his bare, round shoulder,
his hair tied in a knot,
a model of concentration.

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word
for what he does, or does not do.

Even the season is wrong for him.
In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid?
Is this not implied by his serene expression,
that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe?

But here we are, working our way down the driveway,
one shovelful at a time.
We toss the light powder into the clear air.
We feel the cold mist on our faces.
And with every heave we disappear
and become lost to each other
in these sudden clouds of our own making,
these fountain-bursts of snow.

This is so much better than a sermon in church,
I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling.
This is the true religion, the religion of snow,
and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky,
I say, but he is too busy to hear me.

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow
as if it were the purpose of existence,
as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway
you could back the car down easily
and drive off into the vanities of the world
with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio.

All morning long we work side by side,
me with my commentary
and he inside his generous pocket of silence,
until the hour is nearly noon
and the snow is piled high all around us;
then, I hear him speak.

After this, he asks,
can we go inside and play cards?

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk
and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table
while you shuffle the deck.
and our boots stand dripping by the door.

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes
and leaning for a moment on his shovel
before he drives the thin blade again
deep into the glittering white snow.

burn all the letters- marty mcconnell

[saltwaterkill.livejournal.com]

burn all the letters

don't ask me about his mouth.
most days this job has me at the wrong ocean
missing Brooklyn, our slanted kitchen, your ankles.
at the register: green apples, zucchini, lime popsicles.

most days this job has me at the wrong ocean
-- a pattern's a pattern, not everything fits.
at the register: green apples, zucchini, lime popsicles
(there's a subway card in the other pocket.)

a pattern's a pattern, not everything fits,
I can write this. our names on the checks, the mailbox,
there's a subway card in the other pocket.
his mouth, the ocean. your voice on the machine.

I can write this: our names on the checks, the mailbox,
both our names, leave a message.
his mouth, the ocean, your voice on the machine.
so much blood. today is green. ginger ale. leaving.

both our names, leave a message:
I have a lover and something like a husband.
so much blood. today is green. ginger ale. leaving.
J says your confessions are overwhelming.

I have a lover and something like a husband.
we've never been a good idea.
J says your confessions are overwhelming.
if it weren't for metaphor, we'd never write anything.

we've never been a good idea.
to write this down – he says you write it all?
if it weren't for metaphor, we'd never write anything.
never trust a poet. so much blood.

to write this down – he says you write it all?
I wanted this we so long I got over the wanting
(never trust a poet. so much blood.)
and there you were. no roses. a cactus.

I wanted this we so long I got over the wanting.
write it: maybe I invented you
and there you were: no roses, a cactus.
if so, I want the keys back.

write it: maybe I invented you.
(take the trash out. change the sheets.)
if so, I want the keys back.
your hair, it's on everything.

take the trash out. change the sheets.
(missing Brooklyn, our slanted kitchen, your ankles.)
your hair, it's on everything.
don't ask me about his mouth.

-marty mcconnell

a childhood favourite

[http://users.livejournal.com/__defendant/]

Surprise
Jean Little

I feel like the ground in winter
Hard, cold, dead, dark, unyielding

Then hope pokes through me
Like a crocus

First Sex

[elocinoco.livejournal.com]

( First Sex )

speaking of sex...

[omletlove.livejournal.com]

Bottom Space - A Negotiation
Angelique Chambers

I'm proud to call myself
a pervert (a title I adopted
after I read somewhere that
real lesbians do not have sex
like that). My new motto: I fuck
therefore I am. According to a
high school textbook, endorphins
are the chemicals released
by the brain when an individual eats
chocolate, smokes marijuana, engages
in sexual activity or is in
pain. Fucking is blood
pounding in my ears, sting landing
on top of sweat. To me good
sex will never taste like
vanilla, but according to The Courage
to Heal, "for women who are working
to heal beyond their conditioning to
abuse, participating in SM makes
no sense." Survivors hide your
rope. Stop checking out the width
of your date's belt, read politically
correct erotica, practice orgasms
to the tune of I love you (Je t'aime
for the exotically inclined).

The Courage to Heal also
tells us that smells are linked to
memories which are linked to bodies
which may explain why the smell of
leather (belts, jackets, boots) makes me
wet. (Being a vegan I've tried to compensate
for this sin. I bought a nylon harness. I sold my
whip, an instrument that could fit every
positive adjective in the English language--sting-y,
sexy, spiffy even--but was leather just the
same.) The smell of leather plays with my
mind the way sound takes you
back the way every time my top hears
a certain song she thinks of her favorite
drag queen, Nikki Fenmore, swaying
hips and swishing tits (bigger than mine but
made of birdseed) on
any given Thursday in Syracuse,
New York. My cunt remembers the
way leather smells smacking
flesh.

Fuck The Courage to
Heal, live the life that makes
you burn. Create
drama, reclaim plot. For
example--in this scene the
protagonist (who for the purposes of
this poem shall be known only as a very
naughty girl) has red finger-
nails, holds a whip and can do back
flips in stiletto heels. People, be not
afraid to get on your
knees and breathe in the scent of
leather before sliding off
a boot. Be bad--collect
restraints, watch porn, call
your lover Daddy loud enough to
scare the neighbors. Just say no to
mediocre sex. Transform your
bedroom into the remote alley of your
fantasies. Stop worrying about lubricant
staining your bed sheets. Suck on
something.