music

ana

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She’s my fave
Undressing in the sun
Return to sea – bye
Forgetting everyone
Eleven high
Ride a wave

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poetry

things that were said @ Poetry Friday

…tell him solitude
is creative if he
is strong….
– Carl Sandburg, from The People, Yes

//

“I’ll read the poem,
anyone got a problem with that?” – Stacy

“I was in a plane once,
the pilot said,
‘we’re gunna make it'” – Charles

“I’ll do anything for
beauty but I don’t recycle
when shit gets hard” – Liz

“there is no such thing as
common sense,
it’s a non-concept” – Charles (?)

“he ratted me out for
looking at porno on
the library computer” – Alan @ Phinoy

“this poem puts conditions on love…
on feelings” – Gary

“you know when you get to the shore
all is well, and that is where the
healing begins” – Mike

“I rode a horse before and
I didn’t feel powerful,
I felt insecure” – Mike

“would a true love even allow you
to do this?” – Gary

“no, it’s not about the black thing,
just the gay thing” – Stacy

“but he’s nutty as a fruit cake!” – Mike

“the dictionary defines unconditional
love as worship” – Charles

“the thing I love most about you
is that you love me” – Kelvin

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other people's poems, poetry

what the living do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss—we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

– Marie Howe, 1998

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other people's poems, poetry

the blue terrance

If you subtract the minor losses,
you can return to your childhood too:
the blackboard chalked with crosses,

the math teacher’s toe ring. You
can be the black boy not even the buck-
toothed girls took a liking to:

the match box, these bones in their funk
machine, this thumb worn smooth
as the belly of a shovel. Thump. Thump.

Thump. Everything I hold takes root.
I remember what the world was like before
I heard the tide humping the shore smooth,

and the lyrics asking: How long has your door
been closed? I remember a garter belt wrung
like a snake around a thigh in the shadows

of a wedding gown before it was flung
out into the bluest part of the night.
Suppose you were nothing but a song

in a busted speaker? Suppose you had to wipe
sweat from the brow of a righteous woman,
but all you owned was a dirty rag? That’s why

the blues will never go out of fashion:
their half rotten aroma, their bloodshot octaves of
consequence; that’s why when they call, Boy, you’re in

trouble. Especially if you love as I love
falling to the earth. Especially if you’re a little bit
high strung and a little bit gutted balloon. I love

watching the sky regret nothing but its
self, though only my lover knows it to be so,
and only after watching me sit

and stare off past Heaven. I love the word No
for its prudence, but I love the romantic
who submits finally to sex in a burning row-

house more. That’s why nothing’s more romantic
than working your teeth through
the muscle. Nothing’s more romantic

than the way good love can take leave of you.
That’s why I’m so doggone lonesome, Baby,
yes, I’m lonesome and I’m blue.

– Terrance Hayes, 2006

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