Feb. 6th, 2005

[identity profile] sylphbranching.livejournal.com
Written on the Wall at West Forest Temple (1084)

From the side, a whole range; from the end, a single peak;
far, near, high, low, no two parts alike.
Why can't I tell the true shape of Lu-shan?
Because I myself am in the mountain.

--Su Tung-P'o (aka Su Shih, 1037-1101), trans. Burton Watson.

The poet had been an official working in the provinces of China, but was exiled on charges of slandering the emperor. When the party was overthrown, he was allowed to return and work again, and this was written on his return journey, through a famously beautiful place.
[identity profile] redheartleaf.livejournal.com
Beauty

Conceive me as a dream of stone:
my breast, where mortals come to grief,
is made to prompt all poets' love,
mute and noble as matter itself.

With snow for flesh, with ice for heart,
I sit on high, an unguessed sphinx
begrudging acts that alter forms;
I never laugh, I never weep.

In studious awe the poets brood
before my monumental pose
aped from the proudest pedestal,
and to bind these docile lovers fast
I freeze the world in a perfect mirror:

The timeless light of my wide eyes.

Baudelaire, Charles.

Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867) is considered to be among the greatest French poets of the 19th Century. Upon passing his baccalaureat exams in 1839, Baudelaire announced his plans to make a living through his writing. He enrolled in the Ecole de Droit as a law student until 1840, when it is believed his addiction to opium and hashish began. Scholars believe Baudelaire contracted syphilis at this time, which ultimately would lead to his death in 1867. He spent his money foolishly on fine clothes and furnishings, eventually exhausting more than half his inheritance within two years. The remainder was kept in a trust from which Baudelaire received a modest monthly allowance. Baudelaire formed a relationship in 1844 with Jeanne Duval, a woman of mixed races, who would serve as the inspiration of his first cycle of love poems, "Black Venus." These poems are considered to be among the finest French erotic poems.

During Baudelaire's wanderings and youth of leisure, he was able to compose many of the poems that would serve as the basis for his sole collection, Les Fleurs du Mal (The Flowers of Evil). Baudelaire would spend the remainder of his life dodging debts, finally succumbing to the proverbial poet's life of extreme poverty. He was greatly influenced by the writings of Edgar Allen Poe, spending 1852 to 1865 translating Poe's work into French.

Baudelaire began a relationship in 1852 with Apollonie-Aglae Sabatier, who would serve as the inspiration for the cycle of poems called "White Venus." Two years later, he renewed a relationship with the actress Marie Daubrun, who inspired the cycle of poems dubbed "Green-Eyed Venus." Many critics regard the period in which Baudelaire wrote "White Venus" and "Green-Eyed Venus" as the poet's prime. The publication of Les Fleurs de Mal resulted in the prosecution of
Baudelaire, his publisher, and his printer for obscenity and blasphemy, of which all three were found guilty and ordered to pay fines. His remaining years were spent in extreme hardship, disillusionment, and depression. He died in his mother's arms in August 1867, leaving behind many unpublished poems and nearly all of his published works out of print.
[identity profile] natelyswhore.livejournal.com


the cars sound like ultra-long waves of ocean coming & going

i shudder when i think of me
back in november. diane & the kids gone.
that stupid ugly house. the end of my novel
not knowing what the hell had happened.
stranded without a car. without a family.
HATE for diane. HATE. realizing what a total asshole she is. no
longer having to listen to country fucking music, i crank dan bern high,
& vic chesnutt, some classical, some jazz. able to imbibe again in
peace amidst ruins & chaos. i didn't like the dog anymore, all that
dusty shedding & charlie's pig-like quality, all the dog-shit off the
back-porch. i was pretty frantic & wrecked, tho i give myself credit
for not being suicidal. 3 weeks in the darkness & changes
& the phone rings. ann. 20 years later. in virginia. 20 years i
hadn't heard her voice, & it's her voice.

this is may 7th. i've been in this apartment since the middle of
january, & i like the place. ann is moving here the end of next month.
she's given me love & laughter & hope & a future of delight. this
summer we'll be slow-dancing in the nude in the livingroom in
candle-light. nag champa incense. our buddha-bellies pressing. she'll
be on her tip-toes. patti smith on the stereo. cold beer on a hot
night, fabulous kisses. this is a growing happiness. this is love.
[identity profile] sansagenda.livejournal.com
Me and You and an Oh
My back against the bookcase,
your tongue on my ear, my foot

lifted to a shelf. You nearly shout,
sure you should stop, look down,

Please, I tell you with my eyes,
love that you know how to make me

always move when, Shouldn't
start that, but yes
, I add,

you say, guilty, I'm nothing, your
hands down my belly, dear

Jesus, but how to help how we,
like tissue between us, brush aside so easy.

It's just me then and you and an Oh.
[identity profile] y0urotherleft.livejournal.com
Night Of The Living Tits
by David Lerner


Joie was back in town, see
and the joint was even liver than usual
night of the living tits

see, poems were read
in honor of her return
from San Diego
where she'd been in self-imposed exile
boiling her art down into
the impossible

but, anyway, she read a story, a
fierce flaming tale of truth and sentiment
ending with the lines
"It's just like Dorothy said,
'There's no fuckin place like home,'"
and the place was like
an inferno of joy

and then she showed her tits

and then Danielle got up
to read
and she showed her tits
and it was good
and the temperature somehow rose
and the fair Kathleen, she
showed hers, too
with a little bump-and-grind
they were excellent, soft and
tender

and then it was Anne's turn
and everyone was so happy

tits, Joie, beer, poetry, dementia,
heart attacks, the world and
everything in it, trading places
with fire, it was just
one of those nights
[identity profile] natelyswhore.livejournal.com

You People

People, don’t ask me again where my shoes are.
The valley I walked through was frozen to me
as I was to it. My heavy hide, my zinc
talisman—I’m fine, people. Don’t stare
at my feet. And don’t flash the sign of the cross
in my face. I carry the Blue Cross Card—
card among cards, card of my number
and gold seal. So shall ye know I am of
the system, in the beast’s belly and up
to here, people, with your pity.

People, what is wrong with you? I don’t care
what the sign on your door says. I will go
to another door. I will knock and rattle
and if you won’t, then surely someone, somewhere,
will put a pancake in my hand.

You people of the rhetorical huh? You lords and ladies
of the blooming stump, I bend over you, taste you,
keep an eye on you, dream for you the beginning
of what you may one day dream an end to.

The new century peeled me bone-bare
like a first song inside a warbler—that bird, people,
who knows not to go where the sky’s stopped.
Keep this in mind. Do you think
the fox won’t find your nest? That
the egg of you will endure the famine?

You, you people born of moons with no
mother-planets, you who are back-lit,
who have no fathers in heaven, hear now
the bruise-knuckled knock of me. I am returned.

From your alley. From your car up on blocks.
From the battered, graffitied railcars that uncouple
and move out into the studded green lightning.

Dare you trust any longer the chained-up dogs of hell
not to bust free? Or that because your youth’s
been ransacked, nothing more will be asked of you?
If a bloody foot’s dragged across your coiffed lawn—
do not confuse me with dawn.

Now people, about the shoes: the shoes
have no doubt entered the sea
and are by now walking the ramparts of Atlantis.
I may be a false prophet, but god bless me, at least
I have something to say. I lay myself down
in a pencil of night—no chiseled tip yet,
but the marks already forming in the lead.

March 2025

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