greatpoetry | Entries tagged with simone muench

mirmusing.livejournal.com

Very quick. Very intense, like a wolf
at a live heart, the sun breaks down.
What is important is to avoid
the time allotted for disavowels
as the livid wound
leaves a trace leaves an abscess
takes its contraction for those clouds
that dip thunder & vanish
like rose leaves in closed jars.
Age approaches, slowly. But it cannot
crystal bone into thin air.
The small hours open their wounds for me.
This is a woman's confession:
I keep this wolf because the wilderness gave it to me.

lonely-hour.livejournal.com

Hello,

I'm looking for poems about the suppressed / unfulfilled potentialities of women in academia, writing and other such, throughout history.

Particularly, I have a vague recalling of one such poem, but can not for the life of me remember it.
I only remember the image of the possible books published by woman behind the book shelves of men (?).

Any poem along these lines would be dearly appreciated anyhow.

Thank you!

Edit: And in compliance with the rules i missed, i've a poem to share- which is good since i've been meaning to share it for a very long while now, but have been much to lazy to type up....

- - - - - - -

IL Y A DES LOUPS QUI S'ASSOIENT AUX PIEDS DE L'HOMME

there are lakes that spin rain into constellations
highways that switch into rivers
gamblers who trade organs for gold

there are fiddles that can kill you
carving their song la cienaga into arms
until it's a flesh-yelling circle

of loup-garous and you
perched like a comma in the middle
of a sentence, circumscribed but alive

the word is a broken door
where light slips through like indium,
scattering the thousand prisms of self

there are cicadas that decay into lace,
indian burns from girls in third grade
whose crushes translate to sugar and ice

( Read more... )

lonely-hour.livejournal.com

Spectacle: Possession

A woman wears a blue dress. It is
Sunday. Red cardinals sing
along the sill. She cuts
her neck with an electric
carving knife. A woman is blue.
She is red. She wears
the Sunday blues. Carves
cardinals into an electric
red dress. Her neck

sings electric. Sunday wears on.

A knife sings before it cuts.

On the sill, Sunday carves

the necks of cardinals. Knives

wear red. Sunday dresses

along the sill. Sing

said the cardinal.

Sing said the knife.

A woman is electric.

Her neck is a sill.

Cardinal sing the Sunday

reds in her electric neck.

A woman is a carving.

A woman is a knife.

A woman.

A woman rises to a knock at her door,

a stone strikes her head as her ex-

husband plunges in, clutching
a rock and a carving

knife. He can't cope

with a prefix meaning no longer

or lacking so he whittles it

from her forehead, criss-

crossing her face with a blade

made for slicing steak.

Their thirteen-year-old daughter witnesses,

from a corner, strapped to her

shadow in shock, her mouth

open, spilling the word stop

that circles the room in a boomerang

returning to splinter her throat, her father's
ears. The man looks up from his white

shirt, Rolex, ox-blood Gucci shoes

splashed with his ex-wife and says

I'm sorry to his daughter as the woman's
breath jags from collapsed lungs.

I am always burying something:

cardinals with shattered wings,

orange peels, smell of your dress

as it dries on the windowsill.

You come to me bearing

poppies, birds and glass,

a carving knife.

Your body a hieroglyph.

You want me to whittle you

down into an amulet;

a tooth necklace to

wear as a token.

In the kitchen's carnivorous light,

you and I are too much alike;

the skull's opalescent curve,

milkweed smelling skeleton,

bones tattered as lace.

Like lightning. Electric.

When i move you carve yourself out of me

humming the mean reds

and the Sunday blues.

Sing say the birds.

Sing say the bones.

~Simone Muench (♥)

mutualmitten.livejournal.com

The Siren's Dream
Simone Muench

I dreamed of orangewood
as you exited my eyes
an apparition, a photoemission

I'm still supine on the divan
as you take shape: heavy
precipitation, then an ocean

cove uninhabited for centuries.
Am I nothing
but a body floating

on the clear mist of citrus?
You fill the room with water and I
fall, elevator-style

into the green-glass sea,

shattering my knees. Glacé---
blood on bone, candied
orange. You suck the sun

into a cone, leave a green stain
as you funnel through
history while I stay

fastened to the observation
post of this listless century
offering sailors, their

scurvied ghosts, lemons, and lamentations, pen-knifed
with viridian into skin-shadows

suspended like snow over the ocean.

Current Mood: tired

mutualmitten.livejournal.com

The water owns her, wears her
like a blue ball gown embossed

with froth. Cypress swoon
from white light. Leaves fall

into goldfish. Beneath a boat,
a girl. Beneath the girl, a poppy

spilling into fire-tangles into
a balefire wheeling in the water.

In one version, she folds up

like a hand fan, her songs
pleated gills panting underwater.

In another, she fashions
the wires of her earrings

into antennae, transmitting
her story across the harbor,

her taffeta dress sliding
toward the lighthouse without her.

- "Till all the crimson changed, and past into deep orange o’er the sea"

orneryhipster.livejournal.com

Hey ladybird lurking,
what's a fuzzy to you

and a fizzy to him?
Calligraphy or filigree

on the shield of a Viking.
He's aloof as a sawtooth.

He can't yodel or sing.
He's a killer Godzilla,

a teapot signaling steam.
A telltale heart, a deadly dart.

It's a Harlequin romance,
a dizzy and a doozy of a dance.

He's a dense lens, a frigate
on a frozen ocean.

You're a whirl of a girl, pearl
and vertigo, marbled star.

He's a conversation in the dark
ardor or a parked car,

smelling of mint and gin
in a seaside citadel

gliding down your pretty
white dress with a pen.

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I Eat Poetry

Entries tagged with simone muench

Wolf Cento - Simone Muench

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Simone Muench

Pretty White Dress - Simone Muench

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