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Archive for the 'PSOetry' Category

laura gilpin (but not the photographer)

Wednesday, September 7th, 2022

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Two-Headed Calf

by Laura Gilpin

Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.

But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.

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Apparently this poem has been around.
Apparently nobody told me.
Apparently a handful of poetry profs didn’t think to tell me.
Apparently I believe they were in great error.
Apparently I love. LOVE. ADORE. WORSHIP. this poem.
Apparently I am seriously crushing on Ms. Gilpin.
Apparently I will grieve forever & a day and to the moon & back.

of music that wakes us

Saturday, August 27th, 2022

Author’s Prayer

by Ilya Kaminsky

If I speak for the dead, I must leave
this animal of my body,

I must write the same poem over and over,
for an empty page is the white flag of their surrender.

If I speak for them, I must walk on the edge
of myself, I must live as a blind man

who runs through rooms without
touching the furniture.

Yes, I live. I can cross the streets asking “What year is it?”
I can dance in my sleep and laugh

in front of the mirror.
Even sleep is a prayer, Lord,

I will praise your madness, and
in a language not mine, speak

of music that wakes us, music
in which we move. For whatever I say

is a kind of petition, and the darkest
days must I praise.

“Author’s Prayer” from Dancing in Odessa.

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I must have more of this poetry.
I must.
I must and I will

basically me …

Tuesday, August 23rd, 2022

get used to it

 

 

fruitless boy-poems

Sunday, October 13th, 2019

To the Vagina

Gwerful Mechain

Every poet, drunken fool
Thinks he’s just the king of cool,
(Every one is such a boor,
He makes me sick, I’m so demure),
He always declaims fruitless praise
Of all the girls in his male gaze.
He’s at it all day long, by God,
Omitting the best bit, silly sod:
He praises the hair, gown of fine love,
And all the girl’s bits up above,
Even lower down he praises merrily
The eyes which glance so sexily;
Daring more, he extols the lovely shape
Of the soft breasts which leave him all agape,
And the beauty’s arms, bright drape,
Even her perfect hands do not escape.
Then with his finest magic
Before night falls, it’s tragic,
He pays homage to God’s might,
An empty eulogy: it’s not quite right:
For he’s left the girl’s middle unpraised,
That place where children are upraised,
The warm bright quim he does not sing,
That tender, plump, pulsating broken ring,
That’s the place I love, the place I bless,
The hidden quim below the dress.
You female body, you’re strong and fair,
A faultless, fleshy court plumed with hair.
I proclaim that the quim is fine,
Circle of broad-edged lips divine,
It’s a valley, longer than a spoon or hand,
A cwm to hold a penis strong and grand;
A vagina there by the swelling bum,
Two lines of red to song must come.
And the churchmen all, the radiant saints,
When they get the chance, have no restraints,
They never fail their chance to steal,
By Saint Beuno, to give it a good feel.
So I hope you feel well and truly told off,
All you proud male poets, you dare not scoff,
Let songs to the quim grow and thrive
Find their due reward and survive.
For it is silky soft, the sultan of an ode,
A little seam, a curtain on a hole bestowed,
Neat flaps in a place of meeting,
The sour grove, circle of greeting,
Superb forest, faultless gift to squeeze,
Fur for a fine pair of balls, tender frieze,
A girl’s thick glade, it is full of love,
Lovely bush, blessed be it by God above.

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Believe it or not, Gwerful Mechain is

  • A FEMALE
  • Welsh 15th Century poet
  • famous for her erotic poetry
  • (and also her strict use of metre)

You might not be impressed (boo you!), but I certainly am. The again, if you are impressed, here’s some sweet Gwerful linkage:

Hope you had fun with this one. She’s inspired me. You will soon see why.

xo, Angela

PS. If you live in Australia, you can get the above peachy vagina as a sticker at Etsy.

PPS. Thank you, Mr. J 2.0, for introducing me to Gwerful. I’m truly smitten with her.

 

who sez stones can’t bloom?

Thursday, September 19th, 2019

Corona

Autumn nibbles its leaf from my hand.
We are friends.

We shell time from the nuts and teach them to walk.
Time returns into its shell.

In the mirror is Sunday.
In dreams come sleeping–
the mouth speaks true.

My eye moves down to my lover’s loins.
We gaze at each other and we speak dark things.

We love one another like poppy, like memory
we slumber like wine in the sea shells
like the sea in the moon’s blood jet.

One heart beat for unrest.

We stand at the window embracing.
People watch us from the street.
It is time people knew. It is time
the stone consented to bloom.

It is time it came time.
It is time.

Paul Celan
translation: John Felstiner

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About Celan

Explaining Celan and this poem