Showing posts with label strength. Show all posts
Showing posts with label strength. Show all posts

1/19/23

SURVIVORMAN - Sherman Alexie

Here’s a fact: Some people want to live more

Than others do. Some can withstand any horror

 

While others will easily surrender

To thirst, hunger, and extremes of weather.

 

In Utah, one man carried another

Man on his back like a conjoined brother

 

And crossed twenty-five miles of desert

To safety. Can you imagine the hurt?

 

Do you think you could be that good and strong?

Yes, yes, you think, but you’re probably wrong.

10/22/22

XIII - Stephen Crane

IF THERE IS A WITNESS TO MY LITTLE LIFE,
TO MY TINY THROES AND STRUGGLES,
HE SEES A FOOL ;
AND IT IS NOT FINE FOR GODS TO MENACE
       FOOLS.

10/7/22

The Clothes Pin - Jane Kenyon

How much better it is
to carry wood to the fire
than to moan about your life.
How much better
to throw the garbage
onto the compost, or to pin the clean
sheet on the line
with a gray-brown wooden clothes pin!

7/23/19

To Myself - Franz Wright

You are riding the bus again
burrowing into the blackness of Interstate 80,
the sole passenger

with an overhead light on.
And I am with you.
I’m the interminable fields you can’t see,

the little lights off in the distance
(in one of those rooms we are
living) and I am the rain

and the others all
around you, and the loneliness you love,
and the universe that loves you specifically, maybe,

and the catastrophic dawn,
the nicotine crawling on your skin—
and when you begin

to cough I won’t cover my face,
and if you vomit this time I will hold you:
everything’s going to be fine

I will whisper.
It won’t always be like this.
I am going to buy you a sandwich.

5/20/19

SONG FOR NOBODY - Thomas Merton

A yellow flower
(Light and spirit)
Sings by itself
For nobody.

A golden spirit
(Light and emptiness)
Sings without a word
By itself.

Let no one touch this gentle sun
In whose dark eye
Someone is awake.

(No light, no gold, no name, no color
And no thought:
O, wide awake!)

A golden heaven
Sings by itself
A song to nobody.

2/6/19

Lines for Winter - Mark Strand

                                                                            for Ros Krauss
Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.

10/23/18

HURLING CROWBIRDS AT MOCKINGBARS - Buddy Wakefield

If we were created in God’s image
then when God was a child
he smushed fire ants with his fingertips
and avoided tough questions.

There are ways around being the go-to person.
Even for ourselves.
Even when the answer is clear
like the holy water gentiles were drinking
when they realized

“Forgiveness is the release of all hope for a better past.”

I thought those were chime shells in your pocket
so I chucked a quarter at it
hoping to hear some part of you respond on a high note.

You acted like I was hurling crowbirds at mockingbars
then you abandoned me for not making sense.
Evidently I don’t experience things as rationally as you do.

For example, I know mercy
when I have enough money to change the jukebox
at a gay bar.

You know mercy whenever
someone shoves a stick of morphine
straight up into your heart.

Goddamn it felt amazing
the days you were happy to see me.

So I smashed a beehive against the ocean
to try and make our splash last longer.
Remember all the honey
had me looking like a jellyfish ape
but you walked off the water
in a porcupine of light, strands of gold
drizzled out to the tips of your wasps.

This is an apology letter to the both of us
for how long it took me to let things go.

It was not my intention to make such a production
of the emptiness between us,
playing tuba on the tombstone of a soprano
to try and keep some dead singer’s perspective alive.

It’s just that I could have swore you sung me a love song back there
and that you meant it
but I guess some people just chew with their mouth open.

So I ate ear plugs alive with my throat, hoping they’d get lodged
deep enough inside the empty spots that I wouldn’t have to hear you
leaving, so I wouldn’t have to listen to my heart keep saying
all my eggs were in a basket of red flags, all my eyes to a bucket
of blindfolds in the cupboard with the muzzles and the gauze.

I didn’t mean to speed so far out and off, trying to drive
your nickels to a well
when you were happy to let those wishes drop.

But I still show up for gentleman practice
in the company of lead dancers
hoping their grace will get stuck in my shoes.
Is that a handsome shadow on my breath, sweet woman,
or is it a cattle call in a school of fish? Still

dance with me. Less like a waltz for panic,
more for the way we’d hoped to swing
the night we took off everything
and we were swinging for the fences.

Don’t hold it against my love. You know I wanna breathe deeper
than this. I didn’t mean to look so serious, didn’t mean
to act like a filthy floor, didn’t mean to turn us both
into some cutting board
but there were knives stuck
in the words where I came from.
Too much time in the back of my words.
I pulled knives from my back and my words.
I cut trombones from the moment you slipped away.

And I know it left me lookin’ like a knife fight, lady.
Boy I know it left me feelin’ like a shotgun shell.
You know I know I might’ve gone and lost my breath
but I wanna show you how I found my breath to death.
It was buried under all the wind instruments
hidden in your castanets. Goddamn. If you ever wanna know
how it felt when you left, if you ever wanna come inside
just knock on the spot
where I finally pressed stop

playing musical chairs with your exit signs.

I’m gonna cause you a miracle

when you see the way I kept God’s image alive.

“Forgiveness is for anyone
who needs safe passage through my mind.”

If I really was created in God’s image
then when God was a boy
he wanted to grow up to be a man.
A good man.

And when God was a man - a good man - he started
telling the truth in order to get honest responses.
He’d say,

Yeah, I know… I really should’ve worn my cross.
Again. But I don’t wanna scare the gentiles off.

That is not what I came here to do.
He said,

I’m pretty sure
I just came here to love you.

2/8/16

"If you're not strong inside yourself I don't even want to be near you." - Henry Rollins

If you're not strong inside yourself I don't even want to be near you.
Don't even look at me. I don't want to know your name. Life is too
short. The closest thing I can come to love, is respect. To me,
respect is miles beyond. That's the problem. Love can exist in spite
of a total lack of respect. To me, that's a fucking fat lie. I can only
carry myself. I can't respect anyone who can't stand on their own
two feet. If you want me, then you must want yourself ten times
more. You must be strong. Otherwise go fall in love and lie to your-
self as you beat yourself into happiness.

"I don't want a shoulder to lean on." - Henry Rollins

I don't want a shoulder to lean on. I don't need it. The whole idea of
“Someone, that special someone...!” is for me, a load of shit. I must
be fully contained. No leakage, no spillover. Dependency is weak-
ness. It's such a lie. Lying there in bed, in your lover's arms. She's
behind me, she believes in me! No one is behind me. I am behind
me. I believe in me. I don't need any support group to keep my head
together. I know what I have to do, so I should just shut up and do it.

1/31/16

If no one ever marries me - Laurence Alma-Tadema

If no one ever marries me,—
And I don't see why they should,
For nurse says I'm not pretty,
And I'm seldom very good—

If no one ever marries me
I shan't mind very much;
I shall buy a squirrel in a cage,
And a little rabbit-hutch:

I shall have a cottage near a wood,
And a pony all my own,
And a little lamb quite clean and tame,
That I can take to town:

And when I'm getting really old,—
At twenty-eight or nine—
I shall buy a little orphan-girl
And bring her up as mine.

1/5/16

Intrusion - Denise Levertov

After I had cut off my hands
and grown new ones

something my former hands had longed for
came and asked to be rocked.

After my plucked out eyes
had withered, and new ones grown

something my former eyes had wept for
came asking to be pitied.

12/11/15

Walking Around - Pablo Neruda

It so happens I am sick of being a man.

And it happens that I walk into tailor-shops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.

That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoe-shops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.

1/1/15

The Uses of Sorrow - Mary Oliver

(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)

Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.

It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift.