Daffodils by William Wordsworth

[lipizzaner99.livejournal.com]

I WANDER'D lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the Milky Way,

They stretch'd in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

I Grant I Never Saw a Goddess Go - Jonathan Chin

[alice-and-i.livejournal.com]

Tonight
is perfect. There’s no moon
in the sky. Your eyes
are neither stars
nor diamonds. There’s no light.
They’ll kill us
if they see us
but all I need
is to feel you
through this darkness.
I’ll forfeit
your sight and sound
for your warmth
instead.
Let’s roll
around in the dirt
and ash - these
are soft
things. The Earth
was made
for our hunted youth.
Nothing shines.

There is the East
and Juliet is the Sun.
They need astronomies
to count their love.
Tristan and his Irish princess
knew oceans of distance;
we have only inches
built into our fingers
to measure our

romance.

If conception is a wild light
visible for miles through the deception
of cityscapes and perspective
then we’re the cold spot
that doesn’t burn as brightly.

Let’s not be spectacular together.
Let’s be not-spectacular together.
Let’s let our love be ordinary and forgetable
so it’ll last any bit longer.

(no subject)

[projectmatt.livejournal.com]

SOBBING UNCONTROLLABLY IN PUBLIC PLACES

    That was the very room that we made
famous with our love, where our souls flew,
crying out and sighing. And that was the room
in which I wrote about her in my dreamy logbook,
thinking a few pages of blue ink would do the trick.
That was the very room in which, the wonder of love
is how I put it, the wonder of love and I succumbed
to the law of physics and all of her beautiful moves.
"Well, you're sure nobody I would pick from a crowd,"
is how she put it, and gave me a look that ate me
slowly as a poem, no wondering allowed.

    And blah, blah, blah.
Thankfully, I will never be one of those
who expect too much from a poem, who want the poet
to explode before he goes, leaving the rostrum draped
with glitz. Thankfully, I will never kill time by striking
a pose: malcontent who dreams too much, sullen fugitive
beneath the amber lamps, prince from a fallen regime.
And I don't have to go around sobbing uncontrollably
in public places to get my point across-that is
for those who want cheap thrills and headaches,
the personal touch. Let them read prose.

    Of course, any young poet
should be able to describe a room,
a few pages of blue ink in a spiral notebook.
Any young poet should be able to describe a room
so poignantly it makes your eyes wet and you continue
reading with heavy sighs. But remember, there was a girl
on the bed, and we were in love, and the room was dark-
I really wasn't a poet yet. Sure, there should have been
a villanelle in her every move, her every look another
blank page torn from the moon, but my mind had a hole
worn through it by her touch, and the funny thing is,
I don't remember much. Oh love, you crack me up.


-John Engman

Cri de Coeur by Emily Fragos

[jiunabug.livejournal.com]

What if you said yes
to everything. What would happen
to me then. I am telling you
the rage would start and never
come to end. How dare you
care for me when all my life
I have had this voltage to ignite
me, this rhythm to drive me,
when something inside your body
dares me to touch my hands
to yours. And if you said go
ahead, touch. What would happen
to my life then, when all along
there has been nothing but me.

Poem No. 5

[jiunabug.livejournal.com]

Between God's eyelashes I look at you,
Contend with the Lord to love you,
In this house without death I break His skull
I ache, I ache to love you.

I will batter God's skull God's skull God's skull!
I will batter it til He love you
And out of Him I'll dash I'll dash
To thy coasts, O mortal flesh.

He'll be broken He'll be broken He'll be broken
By my force of love He'll be broken
And when I reach your side O Eve
You'll break me you'll break me you'll break me

--Jose Garcia Villa

Israel Abrahams

[transemacabre.livejournal.com]

When all within is dark
and former friends misprise
from them I turn to You
and find Love in Your eyes.

When all within is dark
and I my soul despise
from me I turn to You
and find love in Your eyes

When all Your face is dark
and Your just angers rise,
from You I turn to You
and find love in Your eyes.

-- Israel Abrahams

(no subject)

[logandi.livejournal.com]

Consolation for Tamar
(on the occasion of her breaking an ancient pot)


You know I am no archeologist, Tamar,
And that to me it is all one dust or another.
Still, it must mean something to survive the weather
Of the Ages-earthquake, flood, and war-

Only to shatter in your very hands.
Perhaps it was gravity, or maybe fated-
Although I wonder if it had not waited
Those years in drawers, aeons in distant lands,

And in your fingers' music, just a little
Was emboldened by your blood, and so forgot
That it was not a rosebud, but a pot,
And, trying to unfold for you, was brittle.

--A.E. Stallings