Posts Tagged ‘ poem ’

Tilsa Otta – Palabras Errantes

TILSA OTTA

Translated by K.T. Billey.

 

today for the first time I was offended by god
having met you as a woman
without a penis
you who likes them so much
you say pricks
speaking of sizes
I have one
but it’s for personal use
it’s not really mine
I couldn’t use it with you
it’s not permanent, either
I see it about three times a week
I really like it
I’m waiting for it to say I love you
in the end I suppose I’m like all the girls
without a penis
I don’t believe in god but that’s not why
I’m not bothered by him
the truth is I’m happy and grateful to have met you
I write this so that you know
if I had a prick
you’d be the first to know it

 

Source: Palabras Errantes » Archive Tilsa Otta – Palabras Errantes

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Palabras Errantes » Archive My Neighbour without Men – Palabras Errantes

MY NEIGHBOUR WITHOUT MEN

By Dinapiera Di Donato. Translated by Fionn Petch.

 

a fence made of cactus
marked the home of the sting ray’s harpoon
her black veils rippled
no one talks to her

not the breeze, not the dried-up well

the girls from Madeira
sell lace from a white bundle
they feel like pigeons beneath her gaze
avoid her

my grandmother takes pails of water for her
an offering placed before the shut door
while teaching us courtesy
forcing on us ladylike manners
comb our hair say thank you bid farewell
and catch stones
in mid-flight

the vengeful sayona gathers up her
Diogenes syndrome and spills
yards of smooth filaments
around her neck
I do the same
in the ceremony of the waters

hers silver with tortoiseshell
mine dark
an eternity taming
my thatch
an eternity she
brushes hers to a shine
between us
the water
my grandmother knew.

we were good demons
taking care of each other

her barbed wire fence attracts hummingbirds
to the cactus flowers

the sweet fruits allowed us

her threadbare cloak washed for us
my four-year-old war cloak
her ninety-year-old solitude

my own
my grandmother knew

that we could
pluck up the courage
murder
if we were to carve
a pathway through
the house
polish gooseberries
as a gift

not me
I didn’t know

my grandmother crosses the threshold
because Gema Orta is dying
I clear a path through the midden
with a junior witch’s
spell
because I am a soldier and
never a princess
and
her remains are carried off
in suitcases full of wind that
I choose

my grandmother knows

it was the wrong choice:
wrong to pack oneself up
fold oneself up inside with fear and
grey cacti with their fuchsia flowers
a shotgun a silence
to protect oneself
alone
and the unfailing love of another old woman
who understands

it was a place of encounters
but I got lost
mixed up the customs

my stubborn grandmother would not succumb to a bribe
for an ID card that lawfully belongs to her
Gema Orta the vampire the weird forlorn one
the only one on our street
without running water
let the stones fall
my grandmother wraps her in Madeira lace

these are different times
a village of unploughed, fog-wrapped hills
golden dust choking the streets
at the bottom of the last water pail I perceive
the future and the starting point:
this shady place of entwined leaves
will be good
the oasis for parched mining caravans
but not yet

a fence of spiky plants
dry tracks of the great river

a suitcase of bones as strong as jasmine flowers
the word canarí
arrives on the breeze

 

 

Source: Palabras Errantes » Archive My Neighbour without Men – Palabras Errantes

Of Being Numerous by George Oppen

pure joy of the mineral fact, says dmf, who blogs at synthetic zero

George Oppen reads at https://media.sas.upenn.edu/pennsound/authors/Oppen/Oppen-George_02_Of-Being-Numerous_Complete-Reading-at-Berkeley_Broadcast-by-KPFA_08-22-68.mp3

Sunday Poem | 3 Quarks Daily

My Last Résumé

When I was a troubadour
When I was an astronaut
When I was a pirate
You should have seen my closet
You would have loved my shoes.
Kindly consider my application
Even though your position is filled.
This is my stash of snow globes
This is my favorite whip
This is a picture of me with a macaw
This is a song I almost could sing.
When I was a freight train
When I was a satellite
When I was a campfire
You should have seen the starburst
You should have tasted my tomato.
I feel sorry for you I’m unqualified
This is my finest tube of toothpaste
This is when I rode like the raj on a yak
This is the gasoline this is the match.
When I was Hegel’s dialectic
When I was something Rothko forgot
When I was moonlight paving the street
You should have seen the roiling shore
You should have heard the swarm of bees.

by Joseph Di Prisco
from Sight Lines from the Cheap Seats
Rare Bird Books, 2017

 

Source: Sunday Poem | 3 Quarks Daily

When the Plug gets Unplugged, by Kim Hyesoon – YouTube

 

When The Plug gets Unplugged, by Kim Hyesoon

“The Heart Keeps Its Own Company” a poem by Amy King — On Being Alive at 47 To the Day

 

THE HEART KEEPS ITS OWN COMPANY  

I know it’s an anomalous title

but I’m talking about it anyway

on my 47th birthday I think

because I’m thrown by the “7” as symbolic of heaven

while also being a not-quite-but-almost

50 year signifier.

 

Poem continues at On Being Alive at 47 To the Day

two by Mel Elberg | The Brooklyn Rail

INTEGRATED ARTS

 

Our goals can never be achieved through evolution, only through revolution
-Shulamith Firestone               

 

be a woman    reality  with yr hand on the thigh of my eros  please her

as you ejact      spirituality from the real’s repression                       eating

yr fist     mother nature interior               keeps both earspressed    to the wall

with tiniest voice inside it                       the soft fall

of an old newspaper              yr only alive for part of this simulation once

be a woman      under flesh eating flowers     thought worms   attracted

to the glow-eyed`       who wait for no sunshine           be a woman   doom

doom   an accident     blackthorned   eglantine          loosely diagnostic

my heart is a fine hurtle over which you climb

as if   no one lived there

it is not             an alarming situation

            but a gross  abuse       of life  sex     power     we’ve met him

many times before                  be a woman    turning             turnt

ore of the most sweeping global paranoia     ruinous                fuckable

girlhoods         capsizing         (to get rid of the Earth    will be man’s

ultimate sexual domination)     be a woman    he wants it

to be a surprise prove he knows her worth  a   hand   in    mouth    the myths

as product       and their reproducibility inside me       for a fee

she’ll raise you a little erotic charge    a violent   pocket of time

be a woman    supposed not to be   a woman           deconstructing

deep optic fantasy      I am a cunt in the earthbloodying pure heaven

a woman   composing unpower in the vaginal billfolds     of the cycle’s open secret

the silence is the folding action              of concealment        sex

on a dead thing        men there

be a woman

 

Mel Elberg is a queer poet interested in speculative feminisms and the effect of writing on our experience of time.

Source: two | The Brooklyn Rail

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