all by Dorothy PArker

[glass-doll.livejournal.com]

Unfortunate Coincidence

By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite. undying-
Lady, make a note of this:
One of you is lying.
======================================



Observation

If I don't drive around the park,
I'm sure to make my mark.
If I'm in bed each night by ten,
I may get back my looks again.
If I abstain from fun and such,
I'll probably amount to much;
But I shall stay the way I am,
Because I do not give a damn.

=======================================



Men

The hail you as their morning star
Because you are the way you are.
If you return the sentiment,
They'll try to make you different;
And once they have you, safe and sound,
They want to change you all around.
Your ways and moods they put a curse on;
They'd make you another person.
They cannot let you go your gait;
They influence and they educate.
They'd alter all that they admired.
They make me sick, they make me tired.

Queen Anne's Lace by June Jordan

[upendedurn.livejournal.com]

Unseemly as a marvelous an astral renegade
now luminous and startling (rakish)
at the top of its thin/ordinary stem
the flower overpowers or outstares me
as I walk by thinking weeds and poison
ivy, bush and fern or runaway grass:
You (where are you, really?) never leave me
to my boredom: numb as I might like to be.
Repeatedly
you do revive
arouse alive

a suffering.

(no subject)

[https://users.livejournal.com/-dissonant/]

A Form of Women  by Robert Creeley

I have come far enough

from where I was not before

to have seen the things

looking in at me through the open door

 

and have walked tonight

by myself

to see the moonlight

and see it as trees

 

and shapes more fearful

because I feared

what I did not know

but have wanted to know.

 

My face is my own, I thought.

But you have seen it

turn into a thousand years.

I watched you cry.

 

I could not touch you.

I wanted very much to

touch you

but could not.

 

If it is dark when this is given to you,

have care for its content

when the moon shines.

 

My face is my own.

My hands are my own.

My mouth is my own

but I am not.

 

Moon, moon,

when you leave me alone

all the darkness is

an utter blackness,

 

a pit of fear,

a stench,

hands unreasonable

never to touch.

 

But I love you.

Do you love me.

What to say

when you see me.

"Traveling Through the Dark" by William Stafford

[yarn-and-twine.livejournal.com]

This poem really touched me the first time I read it and I thought I'd share.

Traveling through the Dark
William Stafford

Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.

By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason-
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

I thought hard for us all-my only swerving-,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.

from Pretending to Die

[youfuckingbitch.livejournal.com]

Purgatory

I will meet you in purgatory with the other
outcasts, bare-faced and oblivious.
I will meet you in the elevator
stuck on the eleventh floor with a bouquet
of white roses and a silver pocket watch.

There we will discuss the effects of claustrophobia.
We will try on each other's shoes.
We will place our fingertips in wire sockets
and scream like the dead.

But we will not be dead. In limbo the words
we dread to utter suspend like flashing numbers.
We will invade the space. Make ourselves room.

Come to answer for the times we sort-of sinned,
kind-of helped, perhaps guessed the right answer.

You will argue you had little to work with. Show them
stained hands. I will assert my soul was switched

at birth. The light will guide us. Eyes closed, knees broken- we will
continue to rise. Betray our disguise.
The fires, my friend, will not touch you.

- priscila uppal

(no subject)

[redheartleaf.livejournal.com]

This Life

My friend tells me
a man in my house jumped off the roof
the roof is the eighth floor of this building
the roof door was locked how did he manage?
his girlfriend had said goodbye I'm leaving
he was 22
his mother and father were hurrying
at that very moment
from upstate to help him move out of Brooklyn
they had heard about the girl

the people who usually look up
and call jump jump did not see him
the life savers who creep around the back staircases
and reach the roof's edge just in time
never got their chance he meant it he wanted
only one person to know

did he imagine that she would grieve
all her young life away tell everyone
this boy I kind of lived with last year
he died on account of me

my friend was not interested he said you're always
inventing stuff what I want to know how could he throw
his life away how do these guys do it
just like that and here I am fighting this
ferocious insane vindictive virus day and
night day and night and for what? for only
one thing this life this life

Paley, Grace. Begin Again, Collected Poems. (Farrar, Straus and
Giroux - 2001).

Grace Paley (1922 - ) is a woman of many faces. Not only is she a poet, but also a short-story writer, a political activist, a teacher, and a feminist. She lives in both New York City and Vermont and is known for her realistic portrayals of the people and places that she encounters. Paley attended two universities in New York and later joined the faculty at Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville. She was an avid protestor of the Vietnam War during the 60's and was arrested after she and three other writers displayed a banner outside the White House in 1978 that read, "No Nuclear Weapon -- No Nuclear Power -- U.S. or U.S.S.R."

She has written several volumes of short stories including, The Little Disturbances of Man: Stories of Men and Women at Love which drew much admiration for its realistic dialogue. Paley was also a National Book Award finalist in 1994 for her Collected Stories. She published two volumes of poetry, Leaning Forward (1985) and Begin Again: New and Collected Poems (1992). Paley's work is honest, direct, and humorous. She will never cease to catch you by surprise.

(no subject)

[redheartleaf.livejournal.com]

Laughing Song

When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy,
And the dimpling stream runs laughing by;
When the air does laugh with our merry wit,
And the green hill laughs with the noise of it;

When the meadows laugh with lively green.
And the grasshopper laughs in the merry scene,
When Mary and Susan and Emily
With their sweet round mouths sing "Ha, Ha, He!"

When the painted birds laugh in the shade.
Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread,
Come live & be merry, and join with me,
To sing the sweet chorus of "Ha, Ha, He!"

Blake, William.

William Blake (1757-1827) lived in the latter half of the eighteenth century and the early part of the nineteenth century. He was largely responsible for the Romantic Movement in poetry, but was also an accomplished painter, and engraver. In fact, Blake developed "illuminated printing," a technique in which each page of a book is printed in one color (generally black) from an engraved plate containing both text and illustration. The illustration may then be shaded by hand, a task which Blake's wife often did in watercolors.

Blake scholars disagree on whether or not Blake was a mystic. While the Norton Anthology describes him as "an acknowledged mystic, [who] saw visions from the age of four." Others disagree, arguing that Blake was a visionary and not a mystic, the difference being mostly academic in nature.

Living in a time of much social change (American Revolution, French Revolution, and Industrial Revolution), Blake was a social critic who regarded himself as a prophet, and was not truly appreciated during his life, except by small insular groups of individuals. He remained largely unknown during the nineteenth century.