Today's poet

[Mossdog]

Quiet around here!!!

Kissing

They are kissing, on a park bench,
on the edge of an old bed, in a doorway
or on the floor of a church. Kissing
as the streets fill with balloons
or soldiers, locusts or confetti, water
or fire or dust. Kissing down through
the centuries under sun or stars, a dead tree,
an umbrella, amid derelicts. Kissing
as Christ carries his cross, as Gandhi
sings his speeches, as a bullet
careens through the air toward a child’s
good heart. They are kissing,
long, deep, spacious kisses, exploring
the silence of the tongue, the mute
rungs of the upper palate, hungry
for the living flesh. They are still
kissing when the cars crash and the bombs
drop, when the babies are born crying
into the white air, when Mozart bends
to his bowl of soup and Stalin
bends to his garden. They are kissing
to begin the world again. Nothing
can stop them. They kiss until their lips
swell, their thick tongues quickening
to the budded touch, licking up
the sweet juices. I want to believe
they are kissing to save the world,
but they’re not. All they know
is this press and need, these two-legged
beasts, their faces like roses crushed
together and opening, they are covering
their teeth, they are doing what they have to do
to survive the worst, they are sealing
the hard words in, they are dying
for our sins. In a broken world they are
practising this simple and singular act
to perfection. They are holding
onto each other. They are kissing.

— Dorianne Laux

[Mossdog]

Part 2? Sorry for the smoochy theme, but reading both of these poems recently I wondered about the subtext. Any ideas? The first, above, seems quite harsh, while this one redeems the act. There's a tactile theme that seems to run through several of her poems too. I like them both.

Kissing Again
By Dorianne Laux

Kissing again, after a long drought of
not kissing—too many kids, bills, windows
needing repair. Sex, yes, though squeezed in
between the minor depths of anger, despair—
standing up amid the laundry
or fumbling onto the strip of rug between
the coffee table and the couch. Quick, furtive,
like birds. A dance on the wing, but no time
for kissing, the luxuriant tonguing of another
spongy tongue, the deft flicking and feral sucking,
that prolonged lapping that makes a smooth stone
of the brain. To be lost in it, your body tumbled
in sea waves, no up or down, just salt
and the liquid swells set in motion
by the moon, by a tremor in Istanbul, the waft
of a moth wing before it plows into a halo of light.
Praise the deep lustrous kiss that lasts minutes,
blossoms into what feels like days, fields of tulips
glossy with dew, low purple clouds piling in
beneath the distant arch of a bridge. One
after another they storm your lips, each kiss
a caress, autonomous and alive, spilling
into each other, streams into creeks into rivers
that grunt and break upon the gorge. Let the tongue,
in its wisdom, release its stores, let the mouth,
tired of talking, relax into its shapes of give
and receive, its plush swelling, its slick
round reveling, its primal reminiscence
that knows only the one robust world.

[Mossdog]

I've not come across Dorianne before and, as you can no doubt tell, I'm discovering that she's a quite a talent. Here's another that resonants so very much. Hope everyone's okay out there, this thread seems to have gone quiet. Busy lives, holidays, the turn of fate, or maybe just the natural evanescence of the thread as with all things (hope not ).


For the Sake of Strangers

By Dorianne Laux

No matter what the grief, its weight,
we are obliged to carry it.
We rise and gather momentum, the dull strength
that pushes us through crowds.
And then the young boy gives me directions
so avidly. A woman holds the glass door open,
waiting patiently for my empty body to pass through.
All day it continues, each kindness
reaching toward another—a stranger
singing to no one as I pass on the path, trees
offering their blossoms, a retarded child
who lifts his almond eyes and smiles.
Somehow they always find me, seem even
to be waiting, determined to keep me
from myself, from the thing that calls to me
as it must have once called to them—
this temptation to step off the edge
and fall weightless, away from the world.

[freckle]

Part 2? Sorry for the smoochy theme, but reading both of these poems recently I wondered about the subtext. Any ideas? The first, above, seems quite harsh, while this one redeems the act. There's a tactile theme that seems to run through several of her poems too. I like them both.

Kissing Again
By Dorianne Laux

Kissing again, after a long drought of
not kissing—too many kids, bills, windows
needing repair. Sex, yes, though squeezed in
between the minor depths of anger, despair—
standing up amid the laundry
or fumbling onto the strip of rug between
the coffee table and the couch. Quick, furtive,
like birds. A dance on the wing, but no time
for kissing, the luxuriant tonguing of another
spongy tongue, the deft flicking and feral sucking,
that prolonged lapping that makes a smooth stone
of the brain. To be lost in it, your body tumbled
in sea waves, no up or down, just salt
and the liquid swells set in motion
by the moon, by a tremor in Istanbul, the waft
of a moth wing before it plows into a halo of light.
Praise the deep lustrous kiss that lasts minutes,
blossoms into what feels like days, fields of tulips
glossy with dew, low purple clouds piling in
beneath the distant arch of a bridge. One
after another they storm your lips, each kiss
a caress, autonomous and alive, spilling
into each other, streams into creeks into rivers
that grunt and break upon the gorge. Let the tongue,
in its wisdom, release its stores, let the mouth,
tired of talking, relax into its shapes of give
and receive, its plush swelling, its slick
round reveling, its primal reminiscence
that knows only the one robust world.

Hello again! .....I have been hectic with the summers hols hence my absence....these poems are beautiful, I really loved the idea of one's brain being turned into a smooth stone via the act of kissing! I am not sure what the subtext might be, perhaps two lovers are seperated in the first and observe the rest of the world enviously (hence the slight angry tinge, although this would be a literal interpretation) and reunited in the rather more joyous second poem? who knows I really enjoyed them though thank you!

[freckle]

After a fantastic summer break I am starting to think about what lies ahead in the autumn (hopefully some consistent training when the kids are back at school as I have been very lazy)...In September I will be visiting Poland for a few days and was hoping to get to Krakow and Auschwitz if at all possible though time constraints may get in the way. I had a quick look at some Polish poetry and found this very poignant poem written by a young polish poet and member of an underground organisation working against the Nazis. This poem was written 8 hours before her execution at the Ravensbrück concentration camp ...it has been translated and I wondered if that might account for the rather irregular word "inquietude"*...i didn't think however that it reduced the impact of the poem

The Inquietude

Grażyna Chrostowska

The day is like the inquietude of Chopin's music,
The birds, scared away from their nests are circling
Low above the earth,
They are listening, afraid…

Quietness in the nature, warmth is like before a storm.
From the West, low, dark clouds flow.
Waylaid fear strikes into the heart.
Homesickness, homesickness…

I want to walk on soggy roads,
Listen to the sound of wind,
Hunt the breath of spring time,
Feel the deepest feeling,
Find quietness in love.

I am walking, unable to find, keep changing and returning.
Somewhere far a way, village hamlets are left behind.

Clouds flew to the East,
And on the east side,
Lonely, leaning, dark trees endure,
In the wind, and in the quietness,
They are swung by the inquietude.




ps....*http://www.thefreedictionary.com/inquietude
turns out the word does exist! I just hadn't heard of it...

[Alf]

[Alf]

Just been watching the opening ceremony of the Paralympics which turned out to be moving, inspiring and entertaining and I loved 'The Tempest' bits as well

-----------------------------------------------------

Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises,
Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep
Will make me sleep again; and then in dreaming
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked
I cried to dream again

--------------------------------------------

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

[Alf]

Here is one from old "mad, bad and dangerous"

It Is the Hour

It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour -- when lover's vows
Seem sweet in every whisper'd word;
And gentle winds and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the Heaven that clear obscure
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
That follows the decline of day
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.


George Gordon Lord Byron

[Mossdog]

Here is one from old "mad, bad and dangerous"

It Is the Hour

It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour -- when lover's vows
Seem sweet in every whisper'd word;
And gentle winds and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the Heaven that clear obscure
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
That follows the decline of day
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.


George Gordon Lord Byron

Sheer brilliance. But then we all know that already. Thanks for posting Alf.

[Alf]

We Never Said Farewell

We never said farewell, nor even looked
Our last upon each other, for no sign
Was made when we the linkèd chain unhooked
And broke the level line.

And here we dwell together, side by side,
Our places fixed for life upon the chart.
Two islands that the roaring seas divide
Are not more far apart.

Mary Elizabeth Coleridge