In Order of Appearance
- Writhe never sounded
- right until you twisted my
- name between your lips.
Because there is a kind of nakedness or authenticity in poetry that is associated with truth, on many days I haven’t the guts for it, and I fail. But when I succeed, there is nothing in life—except maybe love—that equally verifies my existence.
— Henri Cole, in the eighth installment of his ongoing Paris diary: http://nyr.kr/1hnjt92 (via bookoisseur)
(Source: newyorker.com, via bookoisseur)
All Falls Down
Leaves float to the ground
like a child running this way
and that; all falls down.
- On a trellis, black
- amid ruby and emerald,
- thorns don’t mean to bite.
I sit with flowers
- I sit with flowers
- in the rain, waiting for you
- to uproot us both.
Sorry to see the passing of one of the greats
The Skunk by Seamus Heaney
- Up, black, striped and demasked like the chasuble
- At a funeral mass, the skunk’s tail
- Paraded the skunk. Night after night
- I expected her like a visitor.
- The refrigerator whinnied into silence.
- My desk light softened beyond the verandah.
- Small oranges loomed in the orange tree.
- I began to be tense as a voyeur.
- After eleven years I was composing
- Love-letters again, broaching the ‘wife’
- Like a stored cask, as if its slender vowel
- Had mutated into the night earth and air
- Of California. The beautiful, useless
- Tang of eucalyptus spelt your absence.
- The aftermath of a mouthful of wine
- Was like inhaling you off a cold pillow.
- And there she was, the intent and glamorous,
- Ordinary, mysterious skunk,
- Mythologized, demythologized,
- Snuffing the boards five feet beyond me.
- It all came back to me last night, stirred
- By the sootfall of your things at bedtime,
- Your head-down, tail-up hunt in a bottom drawer
- For the black plunge-line nightdress.
- Why be tolerant
- when I can be human so
- human to love you.
- The dream where every
- one you love loves an other.
- How long ‘til winter?
- Identify me
- take me down to the gallows
- Why can’t we be whole?