'Then Don't Mind Me 'Cause I Ain't Nothin' But A Dream'
"Follow" ~ Jerry Merrick
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wednesday is Work Day. Work is whatever I want, whatever I will, whatever I write.
Today I'm reading Ted Hughes, Birthday Letters. I think I put off reading it so long because I knew I would love it, and I didn't want to like it -- on principle. I love it. I savor it slowly like the sweet chunks in a lobster casserole. Asshole.
"Then close your fingertips and fly where I can't hold you. . ."
I've been writing Valentine's poems for about 7 years now. Maybe birthday poems, too. I don't remember. But Valentines Day poems. I have a new book that's almost done; it needs mo(u)lding. It's called "Una poca de gracia/ Bit of Grace, a book of love poems. The "In A Bird" poem at the end of Hard Drive, the last book in DRIVE is from that collection. I don't know if I'll steal it back for the Bit of Grace. I might post some of the ones that appeared in mags, mostly Sniper Logic/ Square One, the grad student mag where I publish new work (which reminds me, I was going to send them more poems yesterday.) Otherwise, the only final versions appear on the cards. A psychedelic Frida in red this year.
"Well the mockingbird sings each different song. . ."
Yesterday I read from Neruda's 20 Love Poems to my intermediate poetry workshops. Pablo's 19 year old "soul" passing in translation through my lips. Not the Lorca-lush 100 Love Sonnets I would have preferred, but a beginning. Mine.
"Follow in the darkest night the sounds that may impel you. . ."
I've been posting the love poems from DRIVE at my poetry site on myspace to really nice comments. Gracias a todos. I've been working in an absolute vacuum for so many years now -- preblog decades. It's like wandering on the mountain in the fog following the sounds of the river run and when it finally clears it is so darned clear it startles the senses.
While darkness blinds the sky with all its light. . ."
And reading No Tell Motel poems. No Tell poems. Maybe. Yesterday, I told my classes that it was okay to write an erotic love poem without a Subject. "Honestly, Dear, it's just a collection of images!" You can do anything you can never do in a love poem. And none of it is fair. Your mouth is so ugly, wide as a guitar. . .. Just ask Pablo. He'll tell. And live to kiss it again.
"With eager tongues we taste our strife. . ."
And listening to my favorite song since I was 14 years old, sung this time by Susan Tedeschi, over and over again. Once for every year since. It's this year's Valentine's gift. And a poem: "I Love Lorna When She Dances." And watching the slow spill like leftover tears as the bucket of snow seizes the slabs from my view. The hard killing slabs of summer now cushioned in excess; thick thumbs of ice at my arms, asking for my hand in the dance. Death always takes the lead. Life is a free throw on the line we draw ourselves -- with our self -- that body on the line.
"Each song has wings, they won't stay long. . ."
And looking to love, the underside of re-evolution, sister-state to response-ability, co-dominium of the heart's lair, the loyal lure. Not to what endures, but to what keeps coming back to the same place like a daffodil. Naturalized by love, that wild taming in luscious living liquids. Why not?
"Come taste and smell the waters of our time. . ."
And reading you, too, looking for your lovesongs, your proofs of rock, your Gravities of the Exterior, your skeletonal embraces, you, who you choose to have say you, breath you into being from a sock puppet in one night. Full blown. Full fashioned. Fully Empowered. Full feathered. Emplumada.
"And maybe, when we meet there, suddenly I will know you. . ."
And wondering if all you need is a bit of grace. Whatever gets you past the ice sheets of an old neglected snow. What causes you to walk on water, elegant in the glide and stride. What wins the gold of your eye. The silver of an aging moon. "The sun and moon are both right" sang Richie Havens so long ago in a dream deferred. The chipped and empty plates of my past. How could I forget what I loved for so long? Until an other brings it back wrapped in a lovely dream of green on the eve of the threat of a lasting snow.
"Let the river rock you like a cradle
Climb to the treetops, child, if you're able
Let your hands tie a knot across the table
Come and touch the things you cannot feel"
And wondering if all we need is a bit of grace. Grace is all you need. Yo soy el Capitan. And. . .
"If all the things you feel ain't what they seem
Then don't mind me 'cause I ain't nothin' but a dream"
"Follow"
~~~~~~~
~ lyrics by Jerry Merrick
EMI Umart Catalog Inc. (BMI)
Listening to Susan Tedeschi, Hope and Desire, 2005
~~~~~~~
Happy Happy Hearts Day, Dear Deer Hearts! ~ LDC
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wednesday is Work Day. Work is whatever I want, whatever I will, whatever I write.
Today I'm reading Ted Hughes, Birthday Letters. I think I put off reading it so long because I knew I would love it, and I didn't want to like it -- on principle. I love it. I savor it slowly like the sweet chunks in a lobster casserole. Asshole.
"Then close your fingertips and fly where I can't hold you. . ."
I've been writing Valentine's poems for about 7 years now. Maybe birthday poems, too. I don't remember. But Valentines Day poems. I have a new book that's almost done; it needs mo(u)lding. It's called "Una poca de gracia/ Bit of Grace, a book of love poems. The "In A Bird" poem at the end of Hard Drive, the last book in DRIVE is from that collection. I don't know if I'll steal it back for the Bit of Grace. I might post some of the ones that appeared in mags, mostly Sniper Logic/ Square One, the grad student mag where I publish new work (which reminds me, I was going to send them more poems yesterday.) Otherwise, the only final versions appear on the cards. A psychedelic Frida in red this year.
"Well the mockingbird sings each different song. . ."
Yesterday I read from Neruda's 20 Love Poems to my intermediate poetry workshops. Pablo's 19 year old "soul" passing in translation through my lips. Not the Lorca-lush 100 Love Sonnets I would have preferred, but a beginning. Mine.
"Follow in the darkest night the sounds that may impel you. . ."
I've been posting the love poems from DRIVE at my poetry site on myspace to really nice comments. Gracias a todos. I've been working in an absolute vacuum for so many years now -- preblog decades. It's like wandering on the mountain in the fog following the sounds of the river run and when it finally clears it is so darned clear it startles the senses.
While darkness blinds the sky with all its light. . ."
And reading No Tell Motel poems. No Tell poems. Maybe. Yesterday, I told my classes that it was okay to write an erotic love poem without a Subject. "Honestly, Dear, it's just a collection of images!" You can do anything you can never do in a love poem. And none of it is fair. Your mouth is so ugly, wide as a guitar. . .. Just ask Pablo. He'll tell. And live to kiss it again.
"With eager tongues we taste our strife. . ."
And listening to my favorite song since I was 14 years old, sung this time by Susan Tedeschi, over and over again. Once for every year since. It's this year's Valentine's gift. And a poem: "I Love Lorna When She Dances." And watching the slow spill like leftover tears as the bucket of snow seizes the slabs from my view. The hard killing slabs of summer now cushioned in excess; thick thumbs of ice at my arms, asking for my hand in the dance. Death always takes the lead. Life is a free throw on the line we draw ourselves -- with our self -- that body on the line.
"Each song has wings, they won't stay long. . ."
And looking to love, the underside of re-evolution, sister-state to response-ability, co-dominium of the heart's lair, the loyal lure. Not to what endures, but to what keeps coming back to the same place like a daffodil. Naturalized by love, that wild taming in luscious living liquids. Why not?
"Come taste and smell the waters of our time. . ."
And reading you, too, looking for your lovesongs, your proofs of rock, your Gravities of the Exterior, your skeletonal embraces, you, who you choose to have say you, breath you into being from a sock puppet in one night. Full blown. Full fashioned. Fully Empowered. Full feathered. Emplumada.
"And maybe, when we meet there, suddenly I will know you. . ."
And wondering if all you need is a bit of grace. Whatever gets you past the ice sheets of an old neglected snow. What causes you to walk on water, elegant in the glide and stride. What wins the gold of your eye. The silver of an aging moon. "The sun and moon are both right" sang Richie Havens so long ago in a dream deferred. The chipped and empty plates of my past. How could I forget what I loved for so long? Until an other brings it back wrapped in a lovely dream of green on the eve of the threat of a lasting snow.
"Let the river rock you like a cradle
Climb to the treetops, child, if you're able
Let your hands tie a knot across the table
Come and touch the things you cannot feel"
And wondering if all we need is a bit of grace. Grace is all you need. Yo soy el Capitan. And. . .
"If all the things you feel ain't what they seem
Then don't mind me 'cause I ain't nothin' but a dream"
"Follow"
~~~~~~~
~ lyrics by Jerry Merrick
EMI Umart Catalog Inc. (BMI)
Listening to Susan Tedeschi, Hope and Desire, 2005
~~~~~~~
Happy Happy Hearts Day, Dear Deer Hearts! ~ LDC
posted by Lorna Dee Cervantes at 7:34 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home