request for anne carson poem + one rachel eliza griffiths poem.

[two-grey-rooms.livejournal.com]

would anyone who is subscribed to the new yorker be so kind as to copy and paste the new anne carson poem for me, pretty please?

and, of course, a poem for your trouble:

"Blues for Sweet Thing"
Rachel Eliza Griffiths

Whose little girl am I?
Anyone who has money to buy.
What do they call me?
--Nina Simone, "Four Women"

I'm honeysuckle.
A girl child crying
holy seven sins.

A harp & loom.
A rack of ribs.
A ribcage.

A pocket of coins
never to be spent
because my country

no longer exists. Almanac,
without page numbers

or prophecy.
For you I was sycamore,

pear, willow,
maple & bougainvillea.

For you
I was bathwater.

Gazelle, artichoke,
tulip & daffodil.

Your father's tears.

Blue fern of smoke
from a cigarette

opened by a fist
of summer rain.

For you
I was a red dress.

( Teeth that glowed )

"My faith-based initiative," Bob Hicok

[switchercat.livejournal.com]

I needed to type this whole poem up to insert it in the appendix of a paper, and that was a lot of work, so I am softening the blow of having to do such labor by also sharing it here. It's in a pretty intense style. If you don't like the first couple stanzas I suspect you may be turned off by the rest.

*

[Occupied Territories]

My dog puts her head in my crotch, presses her nose
through, to the other side. This is good morning.
I turn the computer on, put seven cups of water
in the coffeemaker, this will yield, will hiss
and gurgle six actual cups, where does the other go,
is there a purgatory of coffee? Fog on the mountains,
a representation of consciousness, I think, pretty
I think. I pour coffee, check e-mail: photo of my niece
holding her “Maximum Really Fierce Triceratops,”
an ad for better cum-shots, message from a friend:

yesterday a rocket, from his stomach he saw a house
become where a house had been, birth of absence,
of a hole, memory is the gap between things,
there was no one home, they killed dishes, a clock,
the woman will rebuild, will live on a scar,
he made a chair for her from three broken chairs,
he is reading Neruda, misses the arcade in Ann Arbor,
what was the name of the river into which he jumped
from the trestle?

( This is how I don’t respond: Huron. I am sorry. )