The Journey - Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice --

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do --

determined to save

the only life you could save.

And The Days Are Not Full Enough - Ezra Pound

And the days are not full enough

And the nights are not full enough

And life slips by like a field mouse

     Not shaking the grass.

"Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines" - Stephen Chbosky

Once on a yellow piece of paper with green lines

he wrote a poem

And he called it "Chops"

because that was the name of his dog

And that's what it was all about

And his teacher gave him an A

and a gold star

And his mother hung it on the kitchen door

and read it to his aunts

That was the year Father Tracy

took all the kids to the zoo

And he let them sing on the bus

And his little sister was born

with tiny toenails and no hair

And his mother and father kissed a lot

And the girl around the corner sent him a

Valentine signed with a row of X's

and he had to ask his father what the X's meant

And his father always tucked him in bed at night

And was always there to do it.

Once on a piece of white paper with blue lines

he wrote a poem

And he called it "Autumn"

because that was the name of the season

And that's what it was all about

And his teacher gave him an A

and asked him to write more clearly

And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door

because of its new paint

And the kids told him

that Father Tracy smoked cigars

And left butts on the pews

And sometimes they would burn holes

That was the year his sister got glasses

with thick lenses and black frames

And the girl around the corner laughed

when he asked her to go see Santa Claus

And the kids told him why

his mother and father kissed a lot

And his father never tucked him in bed at night

And his father got mad

when he cried for him to do it.

Once on a paper torn from his notebook

he wrote a poem

And he called it "Innocence: A Question"

because that was the question about his girl

And that's what it was all about

And his professor gave him an A

and a strange steady look

And his mother never hung it on the kitchen door

because he never showed her

That was the year that Father Tracy died

And he forgot how the end

of the Apostle's Creed went

And he caught his sister

making out on the back porch

And his mother and father never kissed

or even talked

And the girl around the corner

wore too much makeup

That made him cough when he kissed her

but he kissed her anyway

because that was the thing to do

And at three A.M. he tucked himself into bed

his father snoring soundly

That's why on the back of a brown paper bag

he tried another poem

And he called it "Absolutely Nothing"

Because that's what it was really all about

And he gave himself an A

and a slash on each damned wrist

And he hung it on the bathroom door

because this time he didn't think

he could reach the kitchen.

La Belle Dame sans Merci - John Keats

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

    Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge has withered from the lake,

    And no birds sing.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,

    So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel's granary is full,

    And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,

    With anguish moist and fever-dew,

And on thy cheeks a fading rose

    Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,

    Full beautiful - a faery's child,

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

    And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,

    And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;

She looked at me as she did love,

    And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,

    And nothing else saw all day long,

For sidelong would she bend, and sing

    A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,

    And honey wild, and manna-dew,

And sure in language strange she said -

    'I love thee true'.

She took me to her elfin grot,

    And there she wept and sighed full sore,

And there I shut her wild wild eyes

    With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep

    And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -

The latest dream I ever dreamt

    On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,

    Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci

     Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,

    With horrid warning gaped wide,

And I awoke and found me here,

    On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here

    Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

    And no birds sing.

What She Wanted - Topher Cusumano

She’s walking down the street in a pair of six-inch, red, patent leather heels.

She always wished she was taller.

She shaves off her eyebrows and paints them back on.

She’ll be the first to tell you she enjoys the attention—

She’s okay with that.

‘Damn, I wanna fuck this girl,’

he thinks to himself as he follows her home,

the Boston streets slowly becoming narrower,

fewer streetlights scattered in front of the old, brick row-houses,

thick, circular patches of light surrounded by shadow.

He can hear her clicking as she walks.

She walks fast.

She knows where she’s going.

He could hear her clicking only half a block ahead of him.

“Damn, I wanna fuck this girl, yo.

Yo honey, with the fat ass!”

She stops.

She turns.

“Me?” she asks.

Softly, ladylike.

The voice he wants her to have.

The voice you can fuck, and still muffle with only one hand.

“Yeah you mommy—

You wanna come home with me tonight?

You looking real good, girl—

I wanna fuck that ass of yours real good, girl.”

“Me?” she asks again.

“You wanna fuck… me?”

She wears her tits like panties,

She’s got tits built for warfare, this girl.

She’s a battleship, unsinkable by nature.

Scars from girlhood across her thighs,

Wears short skirts so they wonder where she’s been.

She’s been… everywhere.

She walks back toward him.

“Yeah that’s right mommy.

You know what you want.”

And she does.

She knows exactly what she wants.

“You wanna fuck me?” she asks.

They’re face-to-face now.

She notices how dead his eyes are.

She knows how many girls he’s seen ripped apart,

Lying under him.

“You wanna fuck me?”

“Yeah mommy.”

She remembers fourteen.

“You wanna fuck me?”

I Feel Safe When You Lie - Derrick Brown

In somno securitas.

She slid into bed

easy as a knitting needle

into the spine of a hare.

I threw a bag of chalk into the air

across her body

while she slept.

Little rabbit.

I lit black lights into action

watched the frenzied prints emerge

from her breasts, neck, and thighs,

souvenirs of desire.

I breathed across her tight, sand-tanned stomach.

Chalk dust blew into her nose and she awoke.

I asked her

If the man made love to her with all his might?

Did it feel the same?

Did his beads of sweat fall upon the necklace I worked for?

Did he extend the milky antennae of her legs into the air?

Did you tune in God on the meat hook channel?

She said:

“My dear.

Slow, jealous detective,

Come sleep by me.

These prints are yours

And always yours.

They simply will not wash away.

You have had your head in other people’s hands for so long

you forget what your own touch looked like.”

The faders of twilight approached.

I curled into her with my arms,

dead across her ribs,

feeling the rate of her heartbeat increase

as she wonders if I can feel a lie through her nightgown.

It is a feeling I get

when ice-skating through the rising crackles of sunshine.

In sleep, there is safety.