Lucas With C @lucaswithc-blog - Tumblr Blog

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Dagen Du Dog

Dagen du dog,

satt jag på ett kafé och läste dina dikter

för tusende gången,

och för första gången.

Och människorna som drack kaffe

visste inget.

Det fanns ingen tomhet.

Sorg är inte tomhet.

Mitt i konversationer

och klinkande kaffekoppar,

höll jag ett snötäckt fält i ena handen

och en öppen eld i andra.

Jag satt där i 82 år.

Jag kände inte dig.

Men du verkade känna mig.

Du bröt en barriär genom att våga

tala ett gemensamt språk.

Du var 82 rika år i miljontals miljarder

fattiga.

Adrienne, om ord kan överskrida alla gränser—

som du trodde—

så bryter jag dödens barriär,

och skickar dessa till dig.

Doubt by Amy Gerstler

It's a fat cactus

desert travelers tap

for a mucuslike lubricant

that protects their skins.

It's the psyche's dry lakebed

from which moans of pleasure

bubble up in gasous form

and crack the sunbaked mud.

How should I know what moves you—

who shivers in your distance,

a prostrate mirage on the cheap

green bedspread in the only

air-conditioned motel in town—

the one with the hole punched

through the bathroom door?

You're afraid of your own thoughts.

You keep staring at the sky,

where one magnificent fleecy doubt,

several miles in diameter hovers,

just above that spot on the horizon

also known as the vanishing point...

where the sun begins to burn off

all you ever held dear.

Between the bottles of sparkling wine,

two girls dance across the street.

They wave their arms in the air

like rock star muses from the sixties.

I throw a glance once in a while,

in between lines, or when I run dry.

And in case they're thinking:

"There's a miserable poet alone

in the dark"

I light candles, then

get back to work.

I'm not miserable, but I am a poet.

That's why destiny

or some nasty fucker of its cousin

made me sit here struggling instead

of waving my arms in the air

like a muse.

How do you feel about Rhirhi?

Solid vocal chords.

been sitting here writing with a cigarette

stuck to my lip all the time.

thought I was gonna go out and smoke

but got caught up in a poem of some lousy sort

which, at the time, seemed like it was quite good.

when I noticed the cigarette, I was going to remove it,

but it really was stuck. I jerked it and jerked it,

until I almost tore my lip off.

I'd rather have a lip with a permanent cigarette

than no lip, so I learned to live with it.

Myself

Medicine cabinet mirror,

myself.

Chest hair, pine needles.

Barbed wire.

An escaping bandit

in the hollow of my eye.

And under that,

an oyster throat, or

adams apple pie.

Burnt toast—cheeks, unbuttered

for too long, man.

Man. Certainly. Check.

But the medicine cabinet

mirrors above my chest only.

I'm left to guess my sex,

Or to look down, below

belly land, where there is a button

which doesn't open anything,

to my knowledge.

Body. Body of water.

But do you splash if you land

in me? is a question.

I am less water than a squash

but more than leafy greens.

Wet hair, uncombed.

Best as is, but life

obstructs its current state.

Somewhat wet.

The brain, inside

that temporarily bronze head.

Thinking of the sound of a teaspoon

stirring the tea in teacup.

Also, suddenly

of the fact that I am late.

#poetry #english #mirror #self #body

Searching for poetry/short prose for a photography zine. Hit me up if you want to be published or know of someone who deserves to be!

#poetry #prose #zine #photography #imagery #english

The Confirmation

I remember feeling some invisible strings, hooks in my skin, pulling me up. Knowing the ladies' tears when I finally stood up and kept standing for the last verse of the hymn. And when it was over, the people coming up to me one by one, hugging me with swollen eyes and some otherworldly relief. I didn't know what to make of it. I hadn't done anything, except exactly what everyone there wanted me to do. I did it because I was overdue. Ripe. Because I wasn't one of them before I did it. They would say that God put those hooks in my skin, pulled the invisible strings. I felt like I had cheated everyone, and if there was anything that made me feel like I had accomplished anything, it was that. During the six-hour drive back home, I sat in the backseat and stared at the land swooshing by, and I knew that something odd had happened, something that had changed my life, but the only thing I could think of was Louisa. She was what had happened.

The open street-door lets in the breath of

the morning wind from over the lake.

The bus coming to a halt grinds from its sullen brakes—

lullaby, lullaby. The crackle of a newspaper,

the movement of the troubled coat beside you—

sleep, sleep, sleep, sleep...

William Carlos Williams

http://roachskate.tumblr.com/

poetryfoundation

—Charles Bukowski, Poetry, September 1993 Over at Open Culture, see Bukowski talk about might have been the day after - the story of his worst hangover ever.

Don't miss my other blog! You're bound to be disappointed if you do.

Night Poem

I try to make poems into armies,

but most times the words just wander into the street, or bring back stick figure drawings with suns in the right spot.

I have to apologize for them most often at night when the single sheet isn't enough

to keep the heat away, and their stretched necks press against the windows. Naked branches knocking,

tongues from the ceiling's shadows. Not like birds at all really, like slack-jaw smiles

from back-alley pipers who have been in the business too long and scratch the windows, begging.

In my apartment complex, slamming doors sentence palm readers tried in absentia

who promise sweaty truths from all the rooms "just down the hall."

When the moon sets, a corridor ending in a red door opens.

Its golden knocker is a cherub's face behind blinds who looks surprised to see me.

I ask him where he's been, but of course he's speechless in the sunlight, and I am answered by the hum of a summer fly;

by a morning wind that ruffles pages and the bloated belly of a book.

Enter Luck, grinning. Angular. Cross down stage right cue The Flying Dutchman. Luck: (opened-mouthed) (pause, listening) (slapping at fly, eyes and head mimic flight path) Enter Bat, bouncing from ceiling. (Obviously cardboard - After all production costs, as we know can be excessive- Sequined wings of marker-black, wax paper.) Luck (falling backwards, scrambles up) Bat dances on fishing strings revealing. The marionette. Luck Flees. Exit stage left.

- Cutter Streeby

Haiku

buffalo bill and sitting bull were big posers back in '85

#haiku #poetry

Natt

Natten är erfaren. Varm som inuti en kropp. Lyckosfärer svävar sakta genom horisontens mjuka ridå, som rislampor. Vi följer dem på vägen som sträcker sig in i det mörka rundet, den ändlösa natten. En rysning jagar oss, och likt maskrosor bryter den upp asfalten bakom oss. Ett segel står spänt över allt det här. Moln mumlar till varandra att vara tålmodiga. Stora ord och matematiska tal tillhör en annan värld. Här har ingen varit förut. Här är marken torr och röd. Här är natt. När din motståndare ger dig en öppning— var snabb som en hare.

#poetry #poesi #svenska #natt

Tvekan

Klockan 10, bistron, poesi. Klockan 10, bistron, poesi. Klockan 3, våning 5, tandläkaren. Klockan femtioelva, regnbågstunneln, squash. Ska jag vara där? Jag går dit, jag vill gå hem nu. Klockan är mycket, jag är här, och det här är inte poesi. De har mitt namn, jag måste vara punktlig, telefonsamtal och kaffeskit, allt snubblar runt i en spiraltrappa, våning 5, våning 4, klockan 3 över 3, försäkringskassan, nej, bottenplan, jag går ut genom entrén— Hur skevt är inte det? Klockan 10, bistron, poesi. Klockan 10, bistron, poesi. Det står poesi på en skylt. Lev som i en dikt. Här inne är poesi. På alla andra platser är nåt annat, men här! men här...

#poetry #poesi #tvekan

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