greatpoetry | Entries tagged with marty mcconnell

still life with tattoo gun and umbrella
Marty McConnell

I tell Emily a negative spell
is impossible. That magic

can only make, not un-make,
not prevent. I walk to the store
in the cold February haze, the drizzle

making everything faintly shine. I’ve never
before been wise. But here, in the middle
of my third real suffering, the body

has learned to tell me things. The sky
is a fabulous, relentless grey, a slate

some unseen dog’s tongue licked clean.
I owe my life to this expanse
of city, the clocks and unbuttoned

mannequins, the long
tinselled lake, its steady invitation.
Every morning I am remade. Emily

had the crooked heart
I drew on her arm

made permanent. Magic
is like this. Imperfect. I thought
I would be someone else

by now. The rain starts flinging itself
against the pavement. My face
is a lost glove, missing

for days. My face
is on vacation, call back

another time. My face
does not have the time,
or change, or the patience

for any more pretty lies.
Put your mouth on mine.
This is how we stop the rain.

pyreneeees.livejournal.com

I hate to be this person, but I am going through a terrible breakup of a three-year relationship and I would love poetry to make me feel better. Any poetry! Poetry about love, loss, breakups - or just poetry you read when you're having a tough time, poetry that cheers you up, anything. I know this is rather general but if you can't ask your favorite poetry community ("if you can't say it at Christmas, when can you, eh?") for poetry love then the world is a pretty bleak place.

In exchange, here is a very funny poem about the period after a breakup. I think it's just 30 lines so I'm going to keep it above the cut, but let me know if I should add a cut.

Bitcherel
by Eleanor Brown

You ask what I think of your new acquisition;
and since we are now to be 'friends',
I'll strive to the full to cement my position
with honesty. Dear - it depends.

It depends upon taste, which must not be disputed;
for which of us does understand
why some like their furnishings pallid and muted,
their cookery wholesome, but bland?

There isn't a law that a face should have features,
it's just that they generally do;
God couldn't give colour to all of his creatures,
and only gave wit to a few;

I'm sure she has qualities, much underrated,
that compensate amply for this,
along with a charm that is so understated
it's easy for people to miss.

And if there are some who choose clothing to flatter
what beauties they think they possess,
when what's underneath has no shape, does it matter
if there is no shape to the dress?

It's not that I think she is boring, precisely,
that isn't the word I would choose;
I know there are men who like girls who talk nicely
and always wear sensible shoes.

It's not that I think she is vapid and silly;
it's not that her voice makes me wince;
but - chilli con carne without any chilli
is only a plateful of mince...

wyvernstars.livejournal.com

At some point it becomes true that all stories
are love stories. all making, love making.
I didn't make this rule. but it binds me
all the same. I wish there were a law
against condescending against love. against
the economy of fear that says your joy
means less joy for me as if love
were pie, or money, or fossil fuel
dug or pumped from the earth, gone
when it's gone. it's just not true. the heart
with its gift for magnificent expansion
is not coal. not fruit set to spoil or the dollar
cringing in its wallet. when you say darling,
the world lights up at its edges. when mouths
find mouths and minds follow or minds find
minds and mouths, hands, hips, toes, follow –
how about you call that sacred. how about you raise
your veined right hand and swear on the blood
that branches there, yes. I take this crush
to be my lawful infatuation. I will bend toward joy
until the bending's its own pleasure. I will memorize
photographs and street maps, I will acquiesce
to the maudlin urgency of pop songs and dance,
and dance – there's a perfection only the impossible kiss
possesses. there are notes you can only hear naked
in the dark of a room to which you will never
return. anything that moves the world toward light
is a blessing. why not take it with both hands,
lift it to your lips like a broth of stars. this
is the substance that holds our little atoms together
into bodies. this sweet paste of longing
is all that binds us to the earth.
and all we know of the gods.

wind-hover.livejournal.com

Hello, I would like to ask if anyone can recommend any poems for being lonely/homesick/being lost in a new environment? Especially when you're starting at a new school and you don't know anyone. It can also touch on shyness.
As a thank you, I came across this poem while wandering around the Internet and I thought I would share. :)

instructions for a body

praise the miracle body: the odd
and undeniable mechanics of hand,
hundred-boned foot, perfect stretch
of tendon

tell me there are no gods then,
no master plans for this anatomy
with its mobile and evident spark

someone says “children of light”
and another, “goddess fragment” and
another, “chosen” / a dozen makers,
myriad paths, one goal:

some scalpel, some chisel, some crazed
sentimental engineer giving rib, giving
eyelash, giving gut and thumb --

all mattering. all set down
in a going world, vulnerable
and divine

( in the beginning was the word. )

eugenetapdance.livejournal.com

Marrying the Violence

I have taken the blueprint of your back for granted
as if the sidewalk were not an altar
and the sound of the shower not a hurricane
bearing down – there is no ceremony for this.
the night goes on in spite of the rain, much
like the mail. make me a bullet of a mouth,
sex love and money on the radio. not a bullet,
a gun. not a gun, a harbor. to hold you, against
this, against the night with its sirens and batons,
I fly down the block to you and the lights, in
harm’s way, all sixteen muscles of my tongue
pulled, meat for the men who don’t love you.
my love, ink is fool's armor. your good luck
works on no one in uniform. if it's true
that bone is harder than steel, make me
a building, a garden of calcium
and mineral in bloom, deadbolt
of a spine, you coming home whole,
the apartment of my head on your bulletless
chest / each time the cry of fight goes up
on the street I remember your hand, the man
rocking back on his heels, his mouth
a sidelong oval shocked into quiet
at last, his pale hand torn from your forearm --
love, lay your burden down, here, tell me how
to make this body a safehouse and not
a prison, how hold your hand when its every lifting
is an act of self-defense, how take the knife from you
and not call it murder, or surrender – the cabdriver,
the cop, the woman gripping her purse
on the L train conspire -- you are already
a weapon. I am no building, no shield,
less than cotton between the violent night
and your skin, less than teeth
ground down to bonedust
small, white as I am.

turnyourankle.livejournal.com

leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. train your heart
like a dog. change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. you lucky, lucky girl.
you have an apartment
just your size. a bathtub
full of tea. a heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. don’t wish away
your cracked past, your
crooked toes, your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought because the vendor
at the market was so compelling you just
had to have them. you had to have him.
and you did. and now you pull down
the bridge between your houses,
you make him call before
he visits, you take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
don’t lose too much weight.
stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. and you
are not stupid. you loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. heart
like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas.
heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.

rainebm1185.livejournal.com

Deliver me into the mouth of temptation
And, Lord, let the teeth be sharp

dramatae.livejournal.com

Hey everyone -

I've been searching for a post that I stupidly forgot to bookmark. I'm pretty sure that I found the link to it either here or in

literaryquotes, in response to a request post asking for either 'scary' or 'Hallowe'en-themed' poems. I know that the author started by saying that s/he knew their readers were probably expecting the post to be all about Poe's "The Raven," but that there were plenty of other great spooky poems out there. And then they recommended a whole bunch of fantastic poems. I'd really love to find it again, and I've done every google & lj search I can think of, and scoured the tags of both communities, to no avail. Does anybody know what I'm talking about? And alternatively, can you recommend me your favourite scary/horror/gothic/Hallowe'en poems? Thanks very much in advance!

And to make this legit, here's a poem by one of my absolute favourite poets:

( Joan of Arc to the $2,000-an-hour woman by Marty Mcconnell ) [edit: I've now got both posts. Thanks,

sapience!]

hellobomb.livejournal.com

what we do in the dark has no hands. no
crossover effect, no good-bye kiss after the alarm.
what we carry in, we carry out, end of story. this
doesn't even want to be love. except in minutes
when your face has the shape of my palm and I think
lungful. let want out with the cat. returns
and returns, something dutiful. persistent.
hold your breath, let it build, let go. this is practice.
I'm losing weight, a bad sign, I'm happy. serious,
you say. contained, I think. the cat comes back
with a dead bird to the doorstep, an offering. bloodless
this should be easy. a two-step to cowboys. you're beautiful
but that's not the point.

x

I know my way back perfectly well. like the back
of my hand, as it were. but look, the labyrinth walls
are high hedge and green. this also could be joy.

xx

I literally don't know your middle name. does that
matter? what systems we arrange for intimacy, small
disclosures like miniature bridges, your mouth. not
what I'd anticipated. softer. to begin with,
I should tell the truth more. I could miss you,
and that's a liability.

xxx

I am not often off-kilter. but you're so silent, even
naked, and almost absent. I hush too, why
are we here. go. want to throw things, you, the clock,
break windows until something bleeds and you finally
scream. I tell you too much; we are not
those people. or nothing--maybe I say
utilitarian fuck. how would that be. I want you
to want to fall in love with me and that's
unhealthy. wrong. leave your shoes by the door
and pretend it's about the movie. it's love
in the movies it's casablanca and toy story
and water no ice come here. pockets need
to be untucked, drawers thrown open,
nobody's safe. there, I've said it:
someone I was could have loved you.

sybaritica.livejournal.com

harder than flesh

you know the flesh is easy. it's the rest
that's hard -- the balance of identity / society
/ morals / desire

: the thrumming behind your knees
that lingers days after you leave him
at the airport, nightly phonecalls
only sharpening the ache

: the edgy scent of a dark woman's
perfume, the recognition
you could take a new lover.

every mouth, every bloodletting, every
blistering failure and unearned success
gave you something you need here

so you will choose -- now.
in the instant of decision.
with her rapidly walking away.
knowing that to be one is simpler
than to be two, that those
who desire both, all, even together,
live in the liminal spaces
outside the comfort of labels
and limits

knowing you are too many
for the minimization, too broad
for the boxes

: could call yourself gay
except the man perched in the lobby
of your heart has grown essential
to your breathing

: could call yourself straight
except the woman in the fourth row
has a collarbone that makes your lips quiver

so you will choose.

when the man in the pickup yells
DYKE and your arms circles tighter
the waist of the woman
not yet your lover

when the gorgeous butch at the bar says
so what are you? and you know
what honesty will cost you

when the voices in your gut insist the words
you have raised instead of children
will never outlast your brief tenure
in the spotlight

when you know you could never be enough for all
you would die for
and keep fighting anyway

you will choose

knowing morning is not optional
but waking is bravery

knowing the man in the pickup has a cousin
gathering the courage to come out
and she will hear you speak
two Mondays from now
and her chin will rise a bit

knowing all you can do
to get through this day
without running into the woods
or rush hour traffic is choose

what connects your gut to your spine to your heart

refusing to sacrifice any facet of your sexuality
on the altar of any cause, wearing the proof
of your life in the price your loud pen will exact

knowing this life is an argument with darkness : a battle
to believe that morning holds something
worth waking for : something harder
than flesh

~ Marty McConnell

penguin-dodger.livejournal.com

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dirtygirl687.livejournal.com

if honeysuckle were skin it would smell like me
but I am seawater
and cloud-dust on your tongue --
my mother's luminous shadow, father's
fallow orbit, I sweat medicine
and the fears of women whose desperate acts of faith
earned them fading places in forgotten albums
in Oklahoma City and Galva,
the excesses of men with my
saber tongue, my persistent thirsts
(I never wear lipstick,
always expecting to be kissed)
touch me -- my back new asphalt
under bike tires, my hands half chalice
half dare -- know
that I have known this body twenty-nine years,
loved myself through awkwardness and aging,
in the backs of cabs and the beds of strangers
loved myself out of doubt
out of stubbornness      out of the delusions
that tie us weeping and dazed
to those who never claimed
to love us

I forged this body from starch
and fury, prisms and hymns and I am not
only beautiful dressed and I am not
only beautiful naked / I'm the sum
of every whisper, every whistle,
every mouthful of blood and honey
and if honey were blood it would run
like this: thick and steady / viscous
and telling / taste me, iron
and lava / smell me . I reek of nights
purposely alone with the stars,
of impatience corseted with faith
more breakable than whalebone / I live
on the ledges of fingerprints / my children
will carry dictionaries on their hips
and envy the ignorant / I've said
this before and will again / listen
to the quickbreaths between blinks
can you hear my heart beating sideways?
I shimmy     quiver     shriek
laugh in bathtubs      cry on streetcorners
I'm only trying to convince myself
I am not afraid

www.martymcconnell.com

saltwaterkill.livejournal.com

Cassandra & Janis calling

isn’t every uterus a prophet though

and every screamer a target / the hair
a handle for fists, the throat exposed

(we) wall-climbers, loose on the ramparts calling
the body, the body, the body (Hector,
Jimi
)
and the last song, buried alive
these blues

a native prison, the body

let the nails grow, rasp the throat
(Janis) (Cassandra) / let abrasions call down
the curse, refuse the kiss or the ordinary

gorgeous

give the madness bones, call it god
or conspiracy / Agamemnon / Jerry
lay it down for any gone cause, any body

any prophet not us

2: as Cassandra tells it

Apollo’s breath so close to dead, his hands
soft as old olives / what isn’t told, I made
no promises, only wanted the mouth
of a god on me one time but his skin
/ less man than fish. what no one tells you:
immortal is cold, old is old

I was a prophet already. the curse
was on Troy, not me.

3: Janis over coffee

I thought no one was listening
to the words. when the men
came knocking, offering a last fix, my arms
had already started healing, I didn’t need
anything, told them so

but in they came, held me down, one shot,
too hot, I knew right away by their shoes
I was dead

4:

why Sylvia and the gas
why Emma and the arsenic
why Anne and the monoxide
why Margot and the phenobarbitol
why Dorothy and the imipramine
why Ophelia in the river
why Virginia in the river
why Diane’s wrists
why the Sirens and the leap
why Marilyn in the bed
why Sara in the bath

(the throat is the first to rot)

5:

what good is knowing when all lights
say go, when the set is closed and the sword falls

is it true the serpents licked your ears

the father or a god, Port Arthur or Troy, women
with sodium pentothal for blood die for it

unheard

6:

the radiator too is a shushing
/ call it madness. the new method:
distraction. who’s got time
for prophesy when there’s Sex
& the City who can hear us
above the laugh tracks

the hysteria

Helen, unhinge the rope
Melissa, recap the pills
Adalia, let the razors dull
Phoebe, unmap the bridge
Christina, back from the sill
(every uterus a prophet though)
Ruby, away from the alley
Darlene, away from the ocean
Robin, away from the syringe
(every screamer a target)
Harriet, the moonrise
Violet, your sister
Nadine, next Sunday’s brunch with mimosas
Brenda, the blush of the paintbrush
(alive, these blues)
alive, these blues

native prison, this body
(no prophet but us)
throat a door swinging wildly / open.

saltwaterkill.livejournal.com

burn all the letters

don't ask me about his mouth.
most days this job has me at the wrong ocean
missing Brooklyn, our slanted kitchen, your ankles.
at the register: green apples, zucchini, lime popsicles.

most days this job has me at the wrong ocean
-- a pattern's a pattern, not everything fits.
at the register: green apples, zucchini, lime popsicles
(there's a subway card in the other pocket.)

a pattern's a pattern, not everything fits,
I can write this. our names on the checks, the mailbox,
there's a subway card in the other pocket.
his mouth, the ocean. your voice on the machine.

I can write this: our names on the checks, the mailbox,
both our names, leave a message.
his mouth, the ocean, your voice on the machine.
so much blood. today is green. ginger ale. leaving.

both our names, leave a message:
I have a lover and something like a husband.
so much blood. today is green. ginger ale. leaving.
J says your confessions are overwhelming.

I have a lover and something like a husband.
we've never been a good idea.
J says your confessions are overwhelming.
if it weren't for metaphor, we'd never write anything.

we've never been a good idea.
to write this down – he says you write it all?
if it weren't for metaphor, we'd never write anything.
never trust a poet. so much blood.

to write this down – he says you write it all?
I wanted this we so long I got over the wanting
(never trust a poet. so much blood.)
and there you were. no roses. a cactus.

I wanted this we so long I got over the wanting.
write it: maybe I invented you
and there you were: no roses, a cactus.
if so, I want the keys back.

write it: maybe I invented you.
(take the trash out. change the sheets.)
if so, I want the keys back.
your hair, it's on everything.

take the trash out. change the sheets.
(missing Brooklyn, our slanted kitchen, your ankles.)
your hair, it's on everything.
don't ask me about his mouth.

-marty mcconnell

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I Eat Poetry

Entries tagged with marty mcconnell

still life with tattoo gun and umbrella

Request + poem

Three of Cups- Marty McConnell

Instructions for a body | Marty McConnell

Marty Mcconnell.

Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell by Marty McConnell

Rachel McKibbens and Marty McConnell

(no subject)

Miniature Bridges, Your Mouth - Marty McConnell

harder than flesh

Marty McConnell - Def Poetry

to be kissed by Marty McConnell

marty mcconnell

burn all the letters- marty mcconnell