Posts Tagged ‘ poem ’

Bamboo and Plum Blossom: Li Qingzhao (1084-1155)

Li Qingzhao (Li Ching-chao, 1084-1155)

This year with the end of autumn
I find my reflection graying at the temples.
Now that the evening wind is gaining force,
what shall become of the plum blossoms?

Source: Bamboo and Plum Blossom: Li Qingzhao (1084-1155)

Mel Bentley :: solidarity poem

786 Thomas Street,

Beatrice, NE, 80349


You asked for the remaining rules for people who keep going.

“Prepare to travel, tie the pack. Open the flag.” yes.

1) It does not seem like a choice. The word “brave” is wet newspaper plastered to the

sidewalk, transparent, flimsy. Sometimes you can gently peel the newspaper, take it home,

dry it, and pin it between your pages. Sometimes there is no point and you keep moving.

2) The after event leaves you spinning in the quiet of it’s ringing aftermath. Things will seem

unexpectedly sharp and funny. Dissociation is your body helping. Laugh with it.

3) Your body is also a knife. Tuck yourself against those who offer to sheath you, against

whose thighs you can be a weapon.

4) Bend. Err. Be Aberrant. But with and in of and for and between. Judith Butler’s braided

self is made of many.

5) Magic is too hard for almost anyone, it takes too much time. You will have to stop having

ideas about yourself, about time, about magic.

6) Sickness covers itself with things that are crimes although the sickness is not a crime. The

word crime here has no bearing on the legal. Just as legality and justice bear no relation. The

crime of legality is in fact most of what we know but, to keep each other in this space, we

keep our toes along seems.

7) That is to say, fear is not wrong.

8) We are sick with ourselves, the city is sick with us, the world is sick with the city. How to

be alive or want to be is a problem we have to live with. It is not heavy, but it is not light.

8) All this is to say, I understand nothing but sometimes I have the feeling of understanding

when I am alone.

These are the rules I know, they make sense now. Destroy them the second they do not fit.

Keep moving.

—Mel Bentley

A Flight of Geese | Burn The Water


a flight of geese

the folding and stacking

of yesterday’s wash


Little Onion

Source: A Flight of Geese | Burn The Water

Out of the cage of race, of nationality, by Scott Watson

Out of the cage of race, of nationality,

of ethnic group.

Post-Human at last,

at last can we be however sweet nothing is?

– Scott Watson
May, 2016
Sendai, Japan


▶︎ At Night the Mirrors | Cassandra Gillig

from the album put me in charge of poetry magazine

Source: ▶︎ At Night the Mirrors | Cassandra Gillig




Source: emes




MAW SHEIN WIN ~ A Longhouse Birdhouse

Glow worm

female glow worm ~ John Tyler photo


A bed with softer animals

It is raining.
It is Tuesday night.
There are 36 steps up to Alan’s apartment on the East Sde.
A bed with softer animals.
A Doberman Pinscher walks into a 7-11 and buys a carton of milk.
I notice these things.

Rain waters the buildings and they grow and grow.
Makes thieves work harder.
Softens mountains.
Ruins sandwiches.

Some paintings make me cry.
I Like Crying.
Gunsmoke was a good show to cry to
Also, the Waltons’ Christmas Special.

Alan is reading about cannibals in New Guinea.
The cannibals average at five feet tall.
They roast their dead for 30 days then bury them in the jungle.
Alan told me it rains more in the jungle, but I knew that already.

What I don’t know is how lightning feels on the body.
Or what makes a glowworm glow.
Or why the neighbor keeps knocking his head against the wall.


M A Y     S H I E N     W I N

from Cross-Strokes
Poetry between Los Angeles and San Francisco
edited by Neeli Cherkovski and Bill Mohr
Otis Books 2015

A Longhouse Birdhouse

A Yellow Leaf by Ariana Reines

A Yellow Leaf

Ariana Reines

It’s shivering
Like a little lady rattling her bell
Calling for tea
Quivering in the old style

There’s a red light in Boston
At the close of day
Like the red light of idiocy
All along the bricks
Of Harvard Yard & a blue
Sky so hard & irradiated
In the way of old cinema
Whose screens
Reflect the pops & black
Rot spattered
As though it were something
Perhaps nice
As if to say please
No extra charge
Visualize now the idea of your blind spot
I will even do it for you
As the physical reel unspools
& unspools & you blink
In a dark
Room narrow with shadows
Narrow shadows like avant-gardes

It was a dream that woke up
The Fall

It really is something
A sick feeling
Like stopping lying
A dangerous feeling
Like giving up trying to live as though you were otherwise

As though my mouth could water along the split
Waistlines of all the apricot colored squashes
As though the real pumpkins, horns
Of plenty at my hearth
& in my wealth, my death
Were visibly grinning
Thru the rosebud lip of womanhood
Behind which all the women
I really am (they claim)
Hide behind my face & do their flips
Behind my teeth
In the red darkness there
In my potions
In my chemicals
In the mouth I never use
In my poisonous mouth




Source: A Yellow Leaf by Ariana Reines