Quote from "For the sake of a single poem" by Rilke
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Posted:Mar 10, 2021 12:23 pm
Last Updated:Jul 6, 2021 3:05 pm
5194 Views
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Quote from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids, by Rainer Marie Rilke
"For the sake of a single poem"
And is not yet enough have memories. You must be able forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. when they have changed into our very blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves— then can happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.
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Gray poems
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Posted:Mar 10, 2021 6:47 am
Last Updated:Mar 11, 2021 2:19 pm
5542 Views
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Gray poems started January 24th, 2021
There are poems that are easy to share that want to be seen-read-heard
then there are other days when gray skies reflect my gray disposition
silent be silent say the critical voices don't scar the world with this
and so my mark on this world has often been one of absence
but to deny these gray poems is to deny myself is to deny the crocus blooming through the snow
for if I don't give expression to all of it including the gray then the beauty in me also stays hidden unexpressed-unrealized-unknown.
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5
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Alone together
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Posted:Mar 8, 2021 1:59 pm
Last Updated:Mar 12, 2021 5:33 am
7050 Views
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I wanted to find out in what way the specialness of my experience could be made to connect me with other people instead of dividing me from them. —James Baldwin, Nobody Knows My Name
Alone together started November th, 2020
We all at times feel alienated. Tell me about it, that thing that makes you feel so different and alone.
I might understand or at least I can listen and for a brief moment we can be alone together.
Have you been a stranger in the only home you ever knew? I have.
Do you feel anger shame fear all the time? I do.
Have you silently screamed for fear if you let the sound loose you and your world would shatter? I have.
Did you find your people on a psych ward and know it was the only time you would be surrounded those like you? I did.
Have you ever felt so uniquely formed you are sure others wouldn't recognize you as human? I have.
Do you fall in love with words shaping them into poems to show yourself and others that silence is not the only option? I do.
Hear my words find yourself in them find your own words and for a brief moment we can be alone together.
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8
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Canoeing
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Posted:Mar 7, 2021 4:48 pm
Last Updated:May 4, 2021 6:40 am
6777 Views
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Canoeing written March 7th, 2021
I have spent the last few days canoeing the Mackenzie River making the journey in a with maps and words.
As I read it takes back to canoeing in my youth the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness along the northern border of Minnesota.
I can feel the paddle pulling through the water and hear the loons crying at night.
The land around almost untouched since Huron, Chippewa, Cree Dakota and Ojibwa eyes were the ones that had ever seen it.
Now I in thought and memory the clear cold waters of the lakes the portages through forested hills taking me from one gem of a lake and a memory to the next.
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4
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They want
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Posted:Mar 7, 2021 5:43 am
Last Updated:Jul 6, 2021 3:07 pm
6135 Views
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They want written February 6th, 2021
They think they want the body the sex the words
but it's not my words they want the words in me waiting to spill out
some listen for a while but they know what they want and it isn't this body this sex these words me.
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4
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He, the moon, and I
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Posted:Mar 3, 2021 2:39 pm
Last Updated:Mar 13, 2021 5:13 am
7111 Views
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Midnight. Heaven is bathing, the window open. Just a kiss away. —Jane Miller, "American Odalisque", The of Tongues
He, the moon, and I written March 2nd, 2021
My love and I look up at our night skies during this midnight time we share
our eyes looking at the same stars in our heavens so far apart
the moon baths us in its gentle light embracing both of us
I am envious of the moon touching my love when I can not
so I ask the moon to kiss him for me lovers are we he, the moon, and I.
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5
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Until there is no more
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Posted:Mar 1, 2021 5:07 am
Last Updated:Mar 9, 2021 4:45 am
6412 Views
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In the song of the man in his room in his house in his head remembering And then no more? —Thomas McGrath, "Ordonnance", The Gift of Tongues
This poem has a soundtrack. 2 songs that play along with it are "The Knife Feels Like Justice" by Brian Setzer, and "Rock and Roll Dreams Come Through" by Meat Loaf.
Until there is no more started January 31st, 2021
I remember the songs crying from the radio the words I couldn't say giving expression to the searing pain helping my soul fly away until there was no more
I remember my room that was light pink the color my fear still is today the secrets in there breaking open like the stains on the carpet that everyone must have seen the tears in your broken eyes that could not be cried until there was no more
I remember the house that room was in a house that was no home me a hermit crab without a shell war without and war within until there was no more
I remember what was in his head the self-loathing, isolation paranoia and bitterness that were his gift to me from father to beloved until there was no more
What remains is the remembering and the not remembering reality shimmering into and out of existence until there is no more.
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3
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Precarious Balance (in 3 parts)
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Posted:Feb 27, 2021 6:12 am
Last Updated:Feb 27, 2021 9:41 pm
7161 Views
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Precarious Balance (in 3 parts) started December 3rd, 2020
(1) My balance has never been great others walk paths and at the world around them
I at my feet watching for things that might trip me
(2) I walk along a tightrope strung a few inches over the earth my balance precarious
not realizing I could step off at any time onto the stable earth.
(3) Life is a precarious balancing of the joy and the pain singing-tears holding onto each other shatter-whole the impossible duality agony-bliss found in juxtaposition love-destruction we try balance not-enough-too-much somewhere within everything-nothing
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3
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Writing Poems
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Posted:Feb 24, 2021 5:32 am
Last Updated:Feb 27, 2021 8:26 pm
7582 Views
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Writing poems written February 17th, 2021
These poems don't seem like much as I sit at my desk with the blinds open writing on the green graph paper I have always written engineering homework and poems on.
The exhaustion doesn't hit until I post them online moving the handwritten original from unfinished to finished notebook.
finished (for now) finished (but not quite right) finished (but not good enough) finished (but not worth speaking out loud) finished (and to hell with it post it)
Something about that act makes me want to go back to bed even though the sun is bright in the window sure that I will never emerge to write another word.
Thank goodness that feeling isn't permanent or this unfinished notebook now filled with bits and fragments words forgotten as soon as they were written, would be filled with blank pages.
And the finished (but not quite right) notebook getting heavier each day with MY words that have been released into the world, would only have that one poem in it.
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6
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Now I become myself by May Sarton
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Posted:Feb 24, 2021 4:15 am
Last Updated:Mar 10, 2021 12:24 pm
7312 Views
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This is not a poem I wrote. It is one I found early in my life and had read for me at my wedding in 1992? Something like that. Terrible with numbers. I forget about this poem, and then find it again about every 10 years or so. I guess that's an advantage of a memory like mine lol. There's good things to discover again and again.
This poem is everything to me, every time I rediscover it and read it. I found it before I had started writing poems. It means even more to me today as I'm writing. I hope the ending of the poem can feel like mine someday.
Now I become myself by May Sarton
Now I become myself. It’s taken Time, many years and places; I have been dissolved and shaken, Worn other people’s faces, Run madly, as if Time were there, Terribly old, crying a warning, “Hurry, you will be dead before—” (What? Before you reach the morning? Or the end of the poem is clear? Or love safe in the walled city?) Now to stand still, to be here, Feel my own weight and density! The black shadow on the paper Is my hand; the shadow of a word As thought shapes the shaper Falls heavy on the page, is heard. All fuses now, falls into place From wish to action, word to silence, My work, my love, my time, my face Gathered into one intense Gesture of growing like a plant. As slowly as the ripening fruit Fertile, detached, and always spent, Falls but does not exhaust the root, So all the poem is, can give, Grows in me to become the song, Made so and rooted by love. Now there is time and Time is young. O, in this single hour I live All of myself and do not move. I, the pursued, who madly ran, Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!
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Pictures
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Posted:Feb 22, 2021 7:12 am
Last Updated:Jul 6, 2021 3:11 pm
7400 Views
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Pictures Written February th, 2021
He likes take pictures of breast back ass pussy. He says they make his dick hard and I do love that. Love seeing the pictures of and knowing his reaction them.
I hardly know myself sometimes it seems the breast that is mine the body that is mine this face that is mine.
As I am turning my phone for him take pictures I see my face smiling back and I take a picture of smiling.
He asks why I am laughing bent over the bed him behind fucking my ass.
I tell him I am laughing because I see a woman I don't recognize and she looks happy.
Who is that? Can I learn smile like she is in this picture I can't stop looking at?
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7
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Solitude
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Posted:Feb 17, 2021 7:18 am
Last Updated:Feb 18, 2021 11:31 am
9996 Views
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Solitude written January th, 2021
The writing prompt says to describe someone you wish to tell something.
It sounds so easy except I have cultivated distance and silence even within myself.
The conversations I have are of trauma and pain and the crying for comfort which even the conversations with myself rarely provide.
I plant and tend these silent days and silent years that make this silent solitary life.
If silence were currency I would be rich beyond imagining.
Perhaps one day something or someone will grow in these well tended fallow fields.
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2
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Chameleon
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Posted:Feb 16, 2021 5:04 am
Last Updated:Feb 20, 2021 12:46 pm
10789 Views
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Chameleon written February 15th, 2021
the chameleon delights in finding vibrant others to reflect on his skin taking on one's brilliance until the next calls like a siren the beauty of each uniquely intoxicating
until there is the inevitable absence no one to love him for the reflection on his skin of them
without them
who is he?
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3
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