Posts tagged poems
Posts tagged poems
From ‘Lonesome Liz’s Mojo Sideshow’. The Mojo Sideshow features art by Molly Crabapple, Wes Freed, (Drive-by Truckers), Katelan Foisy and more.
was born the nervous type.
I remained so all my life;
eighteen long years, filled with strife.
Each year brutal, stealthy as a knife.
It wasn’t so strange, the not breathing, you know.
I’d always lost my breath with each chill wind’s blow.
A lot of them blew.
Let me tell you…
It was really more than a little late
when I became a fantastic twirler of plates.
Most begin the trade at three or four;
six at the most. I was more
Somehow, the team
found quickly I bested them all.
I could twirl more plates, no matter how tall
the stack the others spun.
What an odd, funny fate.
To lead a team of fantastic twirlers of plates.
I deeply loved the Acrobat.
That’s a fact.
He was as lovely as the dwan.
I was happy. Till I found what went on
inside his head.
It’s been said
mine was a particularly gruesome demise.
Oh, he lies!
He says strangle’s all he did.
What he didn’t tell you is, he hid
my body in seven places or so.
He put my toes where the four winds blow.
That’s why I walk
but do not talk
through my throat.
That’s all she wrote.
Speaking of delerium…
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
Along the reaches of the street Held in a lunar synthesis, Whispering lunar incantations Dissolve the floors of memory And all its clear relations, Its divisions and precisions, Every street lamp that I pass Beats like a fatalistic drum, And through the spaces of the dark Midnight shakes the memory As a madman shakes a dead geranium.
Half-past one, The street lamp sputtered, The street lamp muttered, The street lamp said, “Regard that woman Who hesitates towards you in the light of the door Which opens on her like a grin. You see the border of her dress Is torn and stained with sand, And you see the corner of her eye Twists like a crooked pin.”
The memory throws up high and dry A crowd of twisted things; A twisted branch upon the beach Eaten smooth, and polished As if the world gave up The secret of its skeleton, Stiff and white. A broken spring in a factory yard, Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left Hard and curled and ready to snap.
Half-past two, The street lamp said, “Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter, Slips out its tongue And devours a morsel of rancid butter.” So the hand of a child, automatic, Slipped out and pocketed a toy that was running along the quay. I could see nothing behind that child’s eye. I have seen eyes in the street Trying to peer through lighted shutters, And a crab one afternoon in a pool, An old crab with barnacles on his back, Gripped the end of a stick which I held him.
Half-past three, The lamp sputtered, The lamp muttered in the dark.
The lamp hummed: “Regard the moon, La lune ne garde aucune rancune, She winks a feeble eye, She smiles into corners. She smoothes the hair of the grass. The moon has lost her memory. A washed-out smallpox cracks her face, Her hand twists a paper rose, That smells of dust and old Cologne, She is alone With all the old nocturnal smells That cross and cross across her brain.” The reminiscence comes Of sunless dry geraniums And dust in crevices, Smells of chestnuts in the streets, And female smells in shuttered rooms, And cigarettes in corridors And cocktail smells in bars.”
The lamp said, “Four o’clock, Here is the number on the door. Memory! You have the key, The little lamp spreads a ring on the stair, Mount. The bed is open; the tooth-brush hangs on the wall, Put your shoes at the door, sleep, prepare for life.”
The last twist of the knife.
Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,Saying that now you are not as you wereWhen you had changed from the one who was all to me,But as at first, when our day was fair. Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then, Standing as when I drew near to the townWhere you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,Even to the original air-blue gown! Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessnessTravelling across the wet mead to me here, You being ever consigned to existlessness,Heard no more again far or near? Thus I; faltering forward,Leaves around me falling,Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward And the woman calling
Ezra Pound at William Carlos Williams’s house in 1958 by Richard Avedon proustitute: