ext_52714 (
two-grey-rooms.livejournal.com) wrote in
greatpoetry2014-02-10 04:43 pm
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
Entry tags:
request for anne carson poem + one rachel eliza griffiths poem.
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"
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 under the hot bulb of a basement party. I was a sacrificial smile burning off lamb's fat after midnight. Ace & diamond. The good time no clock could find. White sheet. A pearl drop earring. Shadow wearing her mother's hat. Birdcage. A bird who sat inside your ears like a wound until clarity sounded its back-break trumpet. A woman gone to church with no stockings. A woman gone to love wearing no lingerie. No skin either. Your memories pulled apart by a boll weevil's testimony. For you I was all these things. I ended up being honeysuckle threading a ghetto fence. Dandelion crushed between a cement wall. The rapper's accessory. A bank's vault. I know more about the sadness in paper than the hands that crush paper into clouds. Ghost of magnolia. How did I end up being a ghost of every nothing? I was a sweet thing until the moon was sobbing along the stairwell tower of some woman's throat.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject