From Ntozake Shange

oh you/ you are sucha fool/
you want me to write some more abt you
how you come into me like a rollercoaster in a
dip that swings
leaving me shattered/ glistening/ rich/ screeching
& fully clothed

you set me up to fall into yr dreams
like the sub-saharan animal i am/ in all this heat
wanting to be still
to be still with you

A Poem By Sarah Teasdale-Barter

Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things;
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up,
Holding wonder like a cup.

Life has loveliness to sell;
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And, for the Spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.

Give all you have for loveliness;
Buy it, and never count the cost!
For one white, singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost;
And for a breath of ecstasy,
Give all you have been, or could be.

This Is Just To Say.

Cuntface Damsel In Distress just reminded me of this goddamned poem by William Carlos Williams, who apparently has lots of opinions about my marriage this week.

(Dear Dr. Williams, if you must send me poetic messages from your grave, could you please send them with less infuriating frequency? Yes, I loathed your work as an undergraduate. Yes, I submit to its relevance, crispness, and chill beauty now. I'm sorry I didn't like you and called you cold and male and said that your name was stupid when I was but a wee girl of twenty years. OK? Can we stop this now?)

Anyway, while these poems keeping popping up in that bitch-slapping, higher-power proving kind of way, I continue to find them very sexy and repulsive and annoying. How dare he:

This is just to say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

How dare he eat her breakfast and leave her that sexy poem note! How dare he!

Yes, darling wife, I took your stuff, that was yours and necessary in the most basic, breakfast way. I know you might have thought of those cool plums last night and how they'd be great in the morning. But alas! I am very sexy, very needy, and a tortured artist, and so I take your things and leave you with an empty belly and this thin sliver of beauty, ripped right out of my tortured little heart. Forgive me and love me! I know you're hungry now, but look at how I bat my long eyelashes and make your world more beautiful! Fill you belly with my loveliness!

I Cannot Say.

I cannot say
that I have gone to hell
for your love
but often
found myself there
in your pursuit.
-from "Asphodel," William Carlos Williams

A very dear friend reminded me of these lines. Aren't they perfect? It made me go reread the whole damn poem, and then, there's also this:

Love
to which you too shall bow
along with me-
a flower
a weakest flower
shall be our trust
and not because
we are too feeble
to do otherwise
but because
at the height of my power
I risked what I had to do,
therefore to prove
that we love each other
while my very bones sweated
that I could not cry to you
in the act.

The Star To Every Wandering Bark.

I feel like I should be reading something about addicts acting right suddenly...like this is some kind of devastating phase that indicates that the addict is about to relapse, hugely, like just opening his veins with a penknife to shove the heroin in by the fistful. Who is this wonderful man, and what has he done with my crazy ass husband? We've had a solid week of real sanity, real productivity...

Wait, RD told me how to say it right, "We seem to have had a solid week of real sanity, real productivity."

But I am pointless and mushy and smitten and horny and healthy and happy, which means I haven't got a lot to say to you folks. Happy makes me quiet. Happy also makes me crazy. I'm not so comfortable in happy.

We were in the car yesterday listening to something awful on NPR, and this guy recited Shakespeare's Sonnet 116. That line, "the star to every wandering bark," made me feel something, some recognition I'd never felt before. I've had that sonnet memorized since the 12th grade, and sometimes, when I'm impatient or jogging or scared or tired or trying to clear my mind, I'll recite poetry that I've memorized...so I've turned this poem all around in my head, again and again, for years. But that "star to every wandering bark" grabbed me in a new way, and made me think of my own too-recently tumultuous life...and the years preceding...and all the time present and time past, and how in all the time eternally tumbling to now, one thing has always been true, always ahead of me, always important. The ebbs and flows have always pushed me, meaningfully, towards the place where I am, and that's really beautiful.

The Feces Of A Very Small Cow, Or, I Love Amiri Baraka.

For my little smattering of readers who might give a fuck about what I think about anything, I think this is important. I hope Amiri Baraka gets his $10,000. He's a poet who changed my thinking time and again, and I love him. He's no crazier than any other writer, and there's nothing in his agreement to appear twice and read that included a clause suggesting that he couldn't read any goddamned thing he pleased.

If you've never read it, go read "Somebody Blew Up America," but it's better if you can hear him read it. Wait, I found the video. Read it and watch him read it!



Oh, and also The Dutchman. Or really, read anything he ever wrote. He rocks.

I met him once at The Bowery Poetry Club in Manhattan. I was absolutely smitten, and terrified, but he was the sweetest man, taking me backstage, giving me a hug, signing my chapbook, and talking to me for a few minutes. He didn't care that I was a poem-addled white girl from the South. He cared that I cared about his work, and he liked it that I was teaching his stuff to my inner city college writing class in Brooklyn, and I felt like a teacher and writer talking to another teacher and writer. He rocks. I hope the court hears his case.

The Poem

Here's the poem I'm reading at the wedding. It's lovely, isn't it? It's Pablo Neruda's Sonnet 17.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way
in which there is no I or you
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand
so intimate that when you fall asleep
it is my eyes that close

The Unrequited Newlywed

Here's a poem I was writing before I found the needles. I knew something was wrong because we weren't "doing it." I thought there was another woman, depression, some illness, some penis problem...anything but drugs. The poem is so full of all these spectres that I thought it was interesting when I went back to reread it. I'd thought of working on it, but now that all those demons are dead, I've lost my momentum. I like the first part, though, on its own.

I.

Your face is a mask
and behind it, meaninglessness.
Behind it, a dustcloud,
inhuman and unmoving.
Behind it, a woman with another name
is chattering her secrets.
From each eye socket emerges
a tiny gun,
the sights trained on our lives.
We no longer eat.
We no longer sleep.
We do as we are told.
We feel what we are told.
There are no bones burning,
anxious, inside our chests.
We do not breathe shallow.
We do not fear death.
These feelings are unfortunate, inconvenient,
unwelcome here,
and day and night we wait
and pay dearly for the waiting.
In return, a bowl of dust,
and hours unfolding like leaves,
charmless and gray.

II.

And then, after the lying began,
(and not the lying all day abed,
not the lying in a lover’s arms,
not that warm, midwinter lying
between blankets)
after the lying began to be a thing of lips
and air,
and after the feeling began
unfolding its gray wings,
after the dark skull head
began pushing against the throat’s inner walls,
and after the body split its coil, that bloody cocoon,
and let the moth to air,
then, and only then,
do we recognize marriage.
Marriage is not a home for lovers.
Marriage is an unkind zoo, its walls and chains
unflattering to a lion.
Marriage is the death we all embrace.
Each marriage is a murder,
a brutality against our best thing,
an exchange in kind of love
for a blender.

III.

The untouched feeling of skin
once worn red, the belly
wide and unprovoked,
desolate and unmoved.

IV.

Frozen, and underneath
a waterfall

V.

Surrounded by those we love
and the animal warmth
and the final, firm feeling
that all is false and insufficient.
There are a thousand bodies in the world.
We might cram a thousand bodies in this room.
They might be lively, loving bodies,
beautiful and laughing.
They might be luxurious,
painterly and brilliant,
and all ten thousand fingers might caress me,
and all the thousand wits might engage me,
and all the thousand mouths might press upon me,
but if among those two thousand eyes,
mine do not meet yours,
it will not be enough.
I will keep waiting.

In The Desert

In the desert
I saw a creature,
naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter – bitter", he answered,
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

-Stephen Crane

I Love Google.

I love Google. I love it and use it a million times a day. I don't care if they are trying to take over the world. I am marching in their army of minions.

I first discovered my passion for Googling when I was in grad school. I was married to the wrong man, and I'd sometimes Google my current husband obsessively. I Googled him so obsessively that I wrote a poem based on the hits I got when I searched for his name...it's now my favorite form of poetry...the Google poem.

It's the best way to stalk people, and it's getting better. I like that Google Earth thing, where you can stare at your lover's house. I can't wait until it's in real time, so I can stare at my husband's job and see if he's shooting up. I wish I could Google Earth his veins, his heart and lungs, and see everything that's going on in there.

I love Google Images. I use them to find the pretties to go with my blog. You can find such wonderful pictures if you do a Google Image search for "heroin," "junky," or "heroin abscess." It's awesome.

Sometimes at work we have Google races, like if someone has a question. We'll race race race to see who can find the answer first.

Does anyone remember what we did before Google? Like when you have and Usher song in your head, and you're dying to know, "Does he really, truly say, 'fifty-leven days, umpteen hours,' in the midst of this beautiful love ballad?" Did we just walk around in insufferable ignorance? I can't bear to be away from access to Google's infinite wisdom for more than the 15 minute increment it takes for me to get home. I wish there were a way to plug it into my brain, directly. It's a beautiful thing.

And my lovely, lovely Blogger account...I am getting kind of misty...I'd be lost without it. I love it's ease and functionality. It's the most bestest thing I've ever seen.

And my Gmail! It's on my phone, too! And it's ginormous, big as god, and full of things, and I don't get so much Spam, and people can send me giant pictures, a thousand of them, and it's all ok. And I can search for stuff, like if I know that Jeni sent me a quote that had the word "priapism" in it, I don't have to scroll through a million things. I just type "jeni priapism" and go go go!

And thanks to Google adsense, I've earned something like $3 with all this blogging. Hell yeah! I've told my husband that all proceeds made from the blog go towards his tremendous debt to me. It's something like $2000 that he owes me, not counting the bills he's not paying. I hope he doesn't realize that one way he could make the blog make more money is to act up so that my content would be more interesting...relapse posts get the most hits...SHIT.



Here's my most recent Google poem:

Because it was him,
it was history, just the wrong kind.
I took it with me
because it was him, and his story.
To me, the book was precious
because it was him,
and I knew he would never finish.
Because it was him,
and I understood so well the discomfort that he was feeling,
I did nothing.
Because it was him,
it’s all pretty interesting and informative.
I loved him so much I’d get up out of bed.
Sleep just didn’t matter anymore
because it was him.
He was such a compelling person.
It’s weird to say it, but it was almost a pleasure
because it was him.
He stuck out not only
because it was him alone,
but because he was so charming.
It was because it was him
and his girlfriend. They were kissing.
It was a great picture, but it broke my heart.
Actually, no, that was incredibly funny,
just because it was him
and I had visions of my tongue swelling so horribly.
She smiles. She likes it here,
and she only said it because it was him,
not someone else.
Because it was him,
I was surprised by the swiftness of his actions,
but I didn’t mind.
Even when he did some things
that were thought to be horrible
it didn’t turn me off
because it was him.
Eventually I got over it
because it was him,
and I was so comfortable.
Because I was me,
and I know who I killed in the dream
because it was him,
and I know the emotions I felt when I saw him
because they were mine.
Because it was him
who taught me endurance for the things to come.
Nothing new came from them,
but to me, it was subtle and insidious—
they do it just because it was him
who said it and they hate him.
Is it because it was him
who taught me to be harsh?
“It’s only me,” he said warmly,
and then he said it,
and it was meaningful because it was him..
Not because I believed it,
but because it was him saying it.
Although he never told the truth,
I believed anyway,
because it was him.
It always struck me as doubly provocative
because it was him and his words.
He insisted that this was somehow different
I guess because it was him doing it,
but nothing frightened me
because it was him I wanted
not what he could give me.
If you ask me why I loved him,
I can only say,
because it was him,
because it was me.

Now you go make one...

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Beautiful

i carry your heart with me
by e. e. cummings

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)
i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

Wishes And Other Unrealities

This is a poem I wrote several years ago. It's about my now-husband, then-lover. My heart was broken, and I was in love. I thought this poem would never end, and I think it still isn't over. I need help with the last 2 or 3 lines, desperately. Recommend things!

Wishes and Other Unrealities: The Grammar of Discontent

I. Introduction to Unreal Conditions

It is possible to talk about conditions
that cannot really exist.
First, let’s consider what is real.
We are talking about the future.
There is a real possibility that this condition will happen:
It is morning.
You are at home.
your hand is on my face.
I say, “I love you.”
There are some clouds in the sky.
Notice that we are thinking about a future condition.
Imagine that it rains.
What will you do?

People often talk about situations
that are not real:
their ideas come from imagination, dreams, and wishes.
It is important
to recognize the signals
that a situation is not real.
For instance, your hand moves slowly
and your eyes look to the window.
You say, “I love you.”
There is not a possibility that this condition will happen,
but we can think about it, like a dream.
It’s not very real, but it’s still possible.

II. Understanding Unreal Conditions in the Past

The past is never simple.
The past is not perfect.
The past is not progressive.
The past does not move.
The past is present now,
in midwinter,
as it was when you and I were not
what I thought,
when we were not who we were
and were not where we were
and were not what we said.
The past is full of unreal things:
a mirror,
a plum,
a bowl of roses,
a tablecloth,
buttons,
pebbles,
dried flowers,
a digital clock.
But the past has poor vision.
The past is a liar and a drunk.
It is impossible to be sure
of what was not possible
of what was perpetual impossibility
in the light refracted across the water,
in the bar with the wine,
in the bed in the morning.
Really, the past is a bit of a whore.
The past shouldn’t have been so shameless.

III. Wishes about the Present

I wish it would stop
I wish you would stay
and I wish you would leave
and slow down
and lie down
and not lie

I wish it would rain
and it weren’t so hard
and you would not stare
I wish you would look at me
and touch me
not touch me

I wish you would hush
and I wish for your whisper
I wish you wouldn’t bother me sleeping
and I wish for your morning hunger
I wish your hands weren’t so cold
and I wish for your cold, cold hands

I wish I could write it in Greek
or paint it for you
or you would paint it
and I wish your head were in my hands
and your face, emerging
and the woods and December
and the night in the car
and the time in the garden
and in the hotel
and I wish you were dead

I wish you would experience this repetition as death
I wish you would feel the loss
I wish you would cry
and we had bought that couch

I wish we had more money
and the birds would stop
and you would pay the bill
and we could be alone

I wish I could see you
and I had never seen you
and for the leaves to turn golden

I wish it had never begun
I wish we had never done it
I wish you hadn’t done it so slow
and I wish for you doing it, slow
I wish you were not so beautiful

I wish it were over, now

IV. Wishes about the Future

Let’s consider:
an autumn afternoon.
We would not be in a bedroom.
There would be food on the table.
It would be quiet.
I would glance at you above the steam.
You would understand my look has meaning.

It is possible to imagine
the room we would occupy,
its wooden floor,
the view, the curtains,
the armoire,
the chair and door

And it is possible to discuss the real conditions
the actual situations,
the half gone wine,
the one-night sheet,
the rent,
the whiskey,
the door swung wide,
and the echo through the faded air:
if I could be
if you could be
I would be
you would be

V. Conditions and Conclusions

We should have learned by now
to read the real situation,
use the cues and ask questions
about how things could be different.
You could say:
What you were never was.
You could say:
We never were what was.
I could say:
What never would could be.
I could say:
What isn’t was, or might be.
I could look at you and think:
What could be, maybe, will.
When I look at you, I am thinking of love.
When I think of love, I am thinking of forever.
We can examine these conditions
anywhere, in any time,
and they would always be the same:
Never, always, here, and nowhere,
but the purpose is in the expression.

The Collar

I woke up this morning with George Herbert's "The Collar" on my mind. All these poems keep coming to me. I don't know why. I guess "The Collar" has always been one of my favorites, and I relate so much to the speaker's petulant raving right now, both in myself and in my husband.

I also love the ending...that return to feeling centered and taken care of. I want to feel that way. I want to hear a voice.

The Collar

I STRUCK the board, and cried, No more.
I will abroad.
What? shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free; free as the road,
Loose as the wind, as large as store.
Shall I be still in suit?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me blood, and not restore
What I have lost with cordial fruit?
Sure there was wine
Before my sighs did dry it: there was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the year only lost to me?
Have I no bays to crown it?
No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted?
All wasted?
No so, my heart: but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh-blown age
On double pleasures: leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit, and not forsake thy cage,
Thy rope of sands,
Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law,
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
Away; take heed:
I will abroad.
Call in thy death's head there: tie up thy fears.
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need,
Deserves his load.
But as I rav'd and grew more fierce and wild
At every word,
Me thoughts I heard one calling, Child:
And I reply'd, My Lord.

The Ceremony Of Innocence Is Drowned

The ceremony of innocence is drowned.
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
are full of passionate intensity.

I can't quite validate why these words from "The Second Coming" resonate so much tonight. But they do.

The ceremony of innocence--I wonder what Yeats was thinking of. I bet he wasn't thinking of a young wife's struggle to trust her heroin-addicted husband.

Before I went out of town, I did feel like I was developing something like trust--perhaps it felt more like blind faith--like taking a leap of faith--than genuine trust, but I felt like things were going well. And since things were going well, I should trust him. It felt like a CEREMONY, or a dance...each time a situation arose where I could choose to trust him or not, I would look inside myself and find the benevolence to allow myself to trust.

Or I shouldn't say each time, because it wasn't every time. I still wasn't trusting him with the car or with money...but I also wasn't calling him every 15 minutes if he went out, and I wasn't hounding him about meetings, and I wasn't going through his coat pockets or checking to see if he'd called his dealer online.

And each day, I chose these things in a manner that felt like a sacrament, like a ritual. It felt good.

The parts of the poem about the best lacking all conviction and the worst being full of passionate intensity--the best lacking conviction reminded me of this little moment of rage I had at my Thursday night meeting. I was in this room filled with these beautiful, smart women, good women who work hard and do things the right way--and everyone just seemed so broken up. I've met such amazing, strong, centered women in the program, and sometimes it is disheartening to see them get off balance.

It is disheartening to see myself get off balance. I hate it that someone else's passionate intensity is throwing me for such a loop...