Tag Archives: Janaka Stucky

Ping-Pong & Poetry Crush Reading in Seattle

19 Feb

butterfly2012-1

Thursday, February 27th 7-10pm, Ping-Ping (the official journal of the Henry Miller Library) & Poetry Crush (the official & unofficial digi-crush-journal), join cerebral cortexes in a mysterious and intimate reading at Seattle’s Butterfly Lounge.

Readers include:  Kim Addonizio, Hugh Behm-Steinberg, Joanna Fuhrman, Joe Hall,  Cheryl Quimba, Adeena Karasick, Amy Lawless, James Maughn, Sampson Starkweather, Dan Shapiro, J. Hope Stein, Rauan Klassnik, Janaka Stucky, Maria Garcia Teutsch, Peter Kline and Brittany Perham.

The Butterfly Lounge’s walls of glass-encased butterflies are sure to inspire courageous & metamorphic reading experiences.  Arrive as larva, depart as butterfly.

Advertisements

10 Dead Poets (I would fuck)

30 Oct

 Welcome to Poetry Crush’s 3rd annual  10 Dead Poets (I would fuck).  Thanks to my deranged contributors– you guys are so messed up:  Miracle Jones,  Janaka StuckyJennifer L. KnoxTodd ColbyJoanna Penn Cooper,  Lauren Hunter, Gregory CrosbyLisa Marie Basile and Gabriel Don— together we make up the clandestine members of the Dead Poets (I Would Fuck) Society (along with past participants:  2011, 2012).  Stay spooky! – j. hope stein 

1)  Shakespeare by J. Hope Stein

images

ROMEO & JULIET FOR PEACE

In a press conference held in front of Romeo & Juliet for Peace headquarters in downtown Philadelphia, artist / activist / entrepreneur / provocateur Juliet Capulet confirmed there were two deaths in the most recent Romeo & Juliet for Peace demonstrations, when violence erupted after a group of activists, wearing nothing but paint from head to toe of the colors of the Israeli and Palestinian flags conducted orgies throughout Jerusalem and the Gaza strip.  “We are still trying to understand what happened. We think there was a personal dispute which led to a fight.   What is certain is that we have lost two individuals.  A Romeo and Juliet.”  Capulet said the names of the deceased will be released once the families have been notified.

Capulet appeared to be holding back tears when she explained, “The point of demonstration ‘SMEAR’ was to show that when we love each other the colors of our flags smear together and war disappears.”  Many accuse Capulet of romanticizing the deaths, including one member of the media who shouted as Capulet read her statement– “This isn’t a fairytale, honey.  Two young people are dead.”

Capulet said there were 600 activists in total:  300 Palestinians and 300 Israelis, who were positioned at “epicenters of conflict” throughout the region where they were reciting the famous balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet while engaging in group sex.

Romeo & Juliet for Peace began 7 years ago as an international dating website connecting young5248f903afba4.preview-620 progressive singles romantically in warring nations in protest of their government and older generations who they viewed as “impotent against the problems of war.”  Romeo & Juliet for Peace is free to its members and Capulet, who has cited John Lennon and Yoko Ono’s peace campaigns of the late 1960s, including “War is Over (If you Want it)” as her biggest inspiration, takes no advertisers, only elite sponsors who partner in grassroots campaigns like ‘SMEAR,’ designed to spread her anti-war message.

Within the first year Romeo & Juliet for Peace made a big international splash with its t-shirt line, available in over 50 languages, quoting poignant passages from Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet.  But it’s the best-selling t-shirt with the Romeo & Juliet for Peace tagline that made Capulet a multi-millionaire overnight, saying:  “We’re going to fuck and fuck and fuck until nobody knows where to point their guns.”

When asked by a member of local media if Capulet will rethink her tactics, in light of the deaths of the two activists,  Capulet said the recent violence only strengthens the purpose of her work and that the incident has increased registration to the website in the past 24 hours by over 4000%.  “This is the fastest growing website in the world.”

One of the main attractions of The Romeo & Juliet for Peace website is a live tally of the number of registrants, as well as the number of active relationships and babies resulting from the service.  There were worldwide celebrations last June when the number of babies surpassed a million.  In addition, offshoots: Romeo & Romeo for Peace and Juliet & Juliet for Peace, have both become the go-to dating sites of choice for the international gay community.

When a member of CNN asked – what is your goal?  Capulet responded, “Our goal has always been clear:  To fuck and fuck and fuck until no one knows where to point their guns and eventually they will point it at their own hatred.”

“I have deployed 60,000 ‘troops’ in dozens of countries targeting high-conflict epicenters worldwide who are ready to put their lives on the line.   And they aren’t going to blow themselves up or drop bombs on anyone.  They are going to recite Shakespeare and touch until their flag paint smears into the color of one earth.”

Capulet also confirmed that she has received several death threats on herself and her family, adding,  “My family is already dead.  And if I were killed, another Juliet would take my place.  We’ve planned for that scenario.”  Very little is known about Capulet herself, including her real name.

Capulet then recited the final lines from Romeo and Juliet and took no more questions:

A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head:
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished:
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.

2) Emma Lazarus & Julia Ward Howe by Miracle Jones

Julia_Ward_Howe_2

“I did not actually invite the two of you here to this bar beneath an extremely cheap boarding house with available rooms to talk about starting up a new reading series in Brooklyn, dearest Julia Ward Howe and most honorable Emma Lazarus.”

“What???”

“Your duplicity remains the stuff of legend, Mr. Jones!”

“Allow me to introduce the two of you to each other. Actually, both of you need to have a little more O Be Joyful. Here.”

“I never turn down more O Be Joyful.”

“Topping me off is the least you can do, thank you. And I WILL have another tea sandwich.”

“This is Emma Lazarus. She is most famous for writing America’s “Casual Encounters” advertisement, a distinction which both edifies and debases us all in a particularly permanent way. This advertisement sits on the base of the Statue of Liberty and is called “The New Colossus.” It is a sonnet, which is not exactly experimental, but there is something extremely passionate about the entreaties the poem contains. There is, if I may be so bold, a yearning that I find most remarkable, not the least of which because the poem is so quotable. You have really captured something crude and spirited about our young Republic, something which would take a truly labyrinthine — and wicked! — mind to apprehend.”

“MISTER JONES!”

“Why are you putting on that stovepipe hat and false beard?”Emma-Lazarus-courtesy-MJH

“And this is Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, wife of the honorable Dr. Samuel Gridley Howe. She is also a poet, in addition to being an abolitionist, social activist, women’s rights advocate, and pornographer.”

“AND YOU SAY THIS WITHOUT BURSTING INTO FLAME!”

“YOUR ALLEGATIONS ARE QUITE WITHOUT MERIT!”

“Enough with the charade of high-minded indigination! I read your book “Passion Flowers,” Mrs. Howe. I also read “The Hermaphrodite.” I liked them both. They are both books meant to be read with one hand, if you know what I mean. I also know that you have some championship-class pearl sweat going for Abraham Lincoln. We all read the blog post in “The Atlantic Monthly” that you wrote the night you met him. All that stuff about his awesome shining sword and his big fat truth and how you want him to split you like a serpent, and then rage-fuck you like a dude stomping grapes.”

“YOU ARE USING WORDS THAT MAKE NO SENSE”

“I UNDERSTAND HALF OF THIS BUT I AM ALL THE WAY OFFENDED.”

“I see neither of you have run screaming from the room yet. The door is right there. Do I detect a flush from you, Mrs. Howe? Is that a pretty outlandish understatment? What reason do you have to loosen your dress so flagrantly and with such strong movements, Miss Lazarus?”

“I feel that I must not leave or I shall starve for oxygen. Something in your words transfixes me.”

“You are yearning to breathe free, eh?”

“My own lines! They convict me!”

“And you Mrs. Howe?”

“It is difficult to remain anything but…agitated…while you are wearing that horrible stovepipe hat. Quickly! Do you have any of Mr. Graham’s crackers?”

“YES I TOO DESPARATELY NEED ONE OF MR. GRAHAM’S CRACKERS.”

“There are no Graham crackers here, ladies. Just another bottle of rotgut, an extremely large feather bed, some fresh oranges, a stereoscope full of French daguerrotypes and one that I stole from Andrew Jackson himself, heavy black velvet drapes to block out both the sun and the prying eyes of Le Moyenne Bourgeosie, two blister packs of Plan B, a blacklight poster of Walt Whitman, a whole goddamn tube of KY jelly, snacks from the bodega, the Delmonico’s take-out menu, a length of good Yankee rope, and both a Rebel and Union regular army uniform, which we can take turns wearing.”

“I…………..must be…………..DREAMING. YET I DO NOT WISH TO AWAKEN”

“IF MY HEART BEATS ANY FASTER I FEAR I SHALL HEMORRHAGE”

“Upstairs, ladies! Follow me upstairs! For God and country and poetry and the Golden Door! WE HAVE A UNION TO MAKE, PRESERVE, PERFECT, AND SUSTAIN” 

 

3) Mina Loy by Todd Colby

mina-loy

I don’t know that I’d actually like to have fucked Mina Loy, but I could see myself cuddling with her after we tried on one of her hats, and danced around the room to the Velvet Underground; throwing our bodies through space and just generally feeling that sense of abandonment that is granted to us with another person, but only a few times in our short lives. I see us walking around the Bowery, picking through junk for her collages, schlepping a red wagon stuffed with detritus, carrying it up to her apartment, and then watching with a joyful admiration as she assembled it into something beautiful. I’d walk over to her and kiss her long neck and whisper that she smelled good, and then we’d tumble onto the floor and whisper poems back and forth to each other, lost in a swirl of time and intimacy. She’d laugh as I read her one of my poems and sigh, reaching over to caress my shoulder and then she’d shuffle through one of her manuscripts and read me something she’d just written. I’d smile and feel a warm glow of recognition that a kindred spirit was sitting in front of me and that perhaps the world wasn’t as dark and obscene as I’d been led to believe; that perhaps there were two people in a room, getting along well enough to dance and read poems to one another without worries about insults or recriminations; that it was possible to be in a room with someone as life swirled around us, and we swirled with it.

 

4) Walt Whitman by Jennifer L. Knox

WhitmanCamdenws

Why bang one dead poet when you can bang everyone and everything in the cosmos?

The young men bathing at the river, the washer women on the shore draping wet white sheets over the stone banks to dry, the dogs barking at them, the tall ships sailing by, wind flooding their sails with the breath of God, the breath of God, the breath of the sailors aboard those ships, and the sailors—Land a’ Goshen!—all those sailors in their tight blue pants, the color blue, colors, the letters in the word “color,” all the letters in every language that has ever existed, hieroglyphics, the pyramids, everything triangle shaped thing, novelty foam Cheesehead hats, etc.

After Walt had his stroke, he recuperated in a cabin by a stream where he’d bathe in the icy water, stimulate his skin with the bristle end of a hairbrush, and spank his own flanks with the wooden handle. That kind of freakiness cannot be created nor destroyed, only changed into more freakiness. Hey, it’s science.

Every person who has ever known lust is buoyed in the eternal wake of one of Walt’s explosive orgasms, which are still exploding all around us—like the volcanoes dotting the lush green mountains of Hawaii—destined to smother us all in a scalding beard of lava.

I don’t have to “choose” to make love to Walt. He chose to make love to us, long ago, and is humping us right now—every day and night—all of us—in the mouth, etc.

Sometimes I’m like, “Get off me!” but it’s like standing in the checkout line at Trader Joe’s: you just got to relax, breathe, and give into it. Otherwise, you’re gonna choke somebody out.

Everything in America is full of sex but Americans. So open your fire hose of liberty, big daddy. You almost makes me feel like I’m French, or an ancient Roman, or made of light that penetrates clothes. Especially pants. You were never a breast man, but you looked hot in a pirate blouse.

5) Langston Hughes, Claude McKay, Countee Cullen, & Jean Toomer by Lauren Hunter

LangstonHughes

SOME FANTASY If I woke up one morning in the 1920s I’d hightail it to Harlem, Borrowing my mama’s best dress And last week’s wages I’d obviously be the cause for many fistfights; They’d call me “la Muse d’135th”— La la. I’d split my time generously Spending the spring in red dreaming with Langston

A queen from some long-dead Egyptian night Walks once again

Feeling the beat of the blues with our hands And sending them on their way with our mouths

Come with a blast of trumpets,  Jesus!

Come summertime, I’d be Claude’s only, in green We’d burn nights at drink, strolling and watching as Harlem Wrapped us in open arms

Oh, with our love the night is warm and deep!

From the cabaret to the nightclub, to the café to the pool hall

Touching the surface and the depth of things   Instinctively responsive unto both Tasting the sweets of being and the stings…. Like a strong tree against a thousand storms.

The fall I’d play young, fast and free Days and nights at dance with Countee What if his glance is bold and free                                                                         His mouth the lash of whips? Spinning through the careless weather, High on Harlem wine, I’d not mind the coming chill

Its measurement of joy compute With blithe, ecstatic hips.

In the winter, I’d hole myself up in a warm apartment Full of books with Jean. The door locked for the season, We’d read late into the night by lamps

whisper of yellow globes

By day linger in bed, covered in pages

then with your tongue remove the tape and press your lips to mine till they are incandescent

jean-toomer
 
 
 

6) Clarice Lispector by Janaka Stucky

clarice-lispector
REMEMBERING WITH LONGING
IS LIKE SAYING FAREWELL ONCE AGAIN

 
 
The corners of your eyes often return
To me at night when I am working
 
Spectre of an exorcised dragon
The light and the Light
 
Catch in the rim where
I could live for centuries amid your black lashes
 
 
     Clarice the spectre
     My story is that I am living without you and I am failing
 
 
Watch me fall slowly
Away over years
 
Your subtle smile poisoning
My every effort to forget
 
This heroic dream
 
 
Clarice the spectre
You look at me and only then
 
Am I in the world
Filled with this happy instinct for destruction
 
An abyss I make my home each time we meet in our permanent sleep

7)  Joe Brainard by Joanna Penn Cooper

brainard

I would like to have a short, funny romance with Joe Brainard after he moved from Tulsa to New York, but before he finished coming out.  Most of our romance would involve lying around in our underwear on a mattress on the floor, looking at magazines and going into a reverie about things we remember.   Then Joe would get up and go to the corner store to get a Pepsi for himself and a Dr. Pepper for me, and we’d stand in the kitchen and eat a cantaloupe I brought over.  After that, we’d collaborate on some drawings with words.

Later, I’d go to Europe for a while, then live in a few other states, maybe ending up upstate. We would have settled into a great lifelong friendship by then, exchanging a large number of postcards that were sort of poems and sort of not, some with drawings.  The postcards would be like a book just for us and for whoever came to my studio later and seemed worth bringing out the shoebox full of postcards for.   There’s one that I particularly like, done in Vermont, with a drawing of one lone shoe.  How is the energy of a person left behind in a lone shoe like that, or in a postcard?

[I’m not too far off here in linking heterosexual romance with Joe Brainard.  In Joe: A Memoir of Joe Brainard, Ron Padgett writes, “At various times Joe was strongly attracted some of his smart, beautiful, talented women friends.”  In fact, in 1972, Joe wrote, “One thing I want to do before I die is to make it with Anne Waldman, without offending Michael Brownstein [her boyfriend].  The old have your cake and eat it too bit.  The story of my life.  And now that I think about it, making it with Michael Brownstein, without offending Anne Waldman, wouldn’t be bad either.”]

8)  William Blake and Christina Rossetti by Gabriel Don

Screen shot 2013-10-29 at 6.34.28 PM

9)  Louise Bogan by Gregory Crosby

Bogan_Louise460 No more pronouncements on lousy verse. No more hidden competition. No more struggling not to be a square. Not square, but severe. They hang the word restrained round your white neck like a choker, but an elegant one, simple, black. Lace-curtain Irish, mother unstable; romantic & preoccupied with sexual betrayal. At midnight tears run into ears. I would like to kiss them away, but I wouldn’t presume. The blue estuary of your skepticism, a fire cold as flame. The satisfaction & trap of minor perfection. The drudgery of book reviewing. No more pronouncements…   When was the last time someone mentioned you? I’d like to take the arm of “Medusa,” “Cassandra,” your “Women,” & promenade down the boulevard of poetry fierce & nearly forgotten. Did Ted Roethke have you in mind when he said I knew a woman, lovely in her bones? I bet your bones glowed. Especially in the dark. I bet you didn’t suffer fools, least of all yourself. I can’t help but think “Epitaph for a Romantic Woman” is your own. I bet your smile was something to behold, a private supernova of surprise, like a kiss bestowed on the undeserved… I cannot believe that the inscrutable universe turns on an axis of suffering; surely the strange beauty of the world must somewhere rest on pure joy. 

 

10)  Marosa di Giorgio by Lisa Marie Basile 

Letter to Marosa

136_wi250_he250_cr1-1.1352820540Marosa, have you thought of me since we last met? Have you thought of the time I wore my hair like yours? I doubt it. I wore my hair like yours to say, “here, take this as transcendence.” I became a growth, an orchid, a nightshade. A woman. In the end I closed my eyes and plunged my hands into the bucket of the garden and pulled something out; you; sweet and angelic and instant as the sky. I knew it was too late to chase you, you had gone, and I was left at the vanity mirror with my legs open hoping the city would understand: I don’t mean to sexualize you or our world. I mean to let you crawl inside me. So I can give birth to you, or through you, so I can make things like you-like a woman-lantern, a mâché of the self, an in-loveness with the world as it isn’t and is. I fondled the night. I let loose my hair from it’s kindly bun, spoke in a frazzled Spanish and watched the rain fall. Someone told me a monster walked past me, right behind, like a door opening, intentions and all. And I believed them, because you would. Because the ivy growing up the side of the yard house wouldn’t have done that if it didn’t want to own something. I’m owned by something, someone. I’m owned by the world around me like a garden glove. It helps to imagine my own seedlings sprinkled, it helps to imagine us kissing. You’re old and I’m young and it can be very beautiful. Tell me to keep seeing the world this way, because everything else is alone, and my tongue falls nicely into your tongue, because I was born wayward and green. As a letter Unsent. I mythologized you because I saw the spirit carrying her tray of floral candies, and when everyone said, “sleep” I needed someone to say, “it’s ok, this forsaken town is just broken.” We will make love in the centro. We won’t mind the Catholics. They say they see the angels but we know we do.

12 Dead Poets (I Would Fuck)

23 Oct

Sometimes you want to fuck a poet but can’t because the poet is dead.  — Boo!  — Last year we did “10 Dead Poets” and this year we did “12”!  Why??  Because it’s 2012.  Also because I meant to do 10 but I miscounted.

Thanks so much to my kinked-up & spooky-awesome contributors for sharing their innermost & wide-ranging necrophiliac tendencies.

Happy halloween & take care.

J. Hope Stein

1) Edward Taylor by Joe Hall

A CONFUSING SEXUAL ENCOUNTER WITH EDWARD TAYLOR

He’d be in his lab, preparing his sermon, and I’d blast down right in front of him, lens flares cutting across our eyes and waists. “Don’t worry, Edward,” I’d say. “I’m from the future, and I’m here to save you.” He’d take his hand from the book leather and touch his hair:

   

               His lovely love on his all
Pinked and masked face? Allowing
Not a kiss? Oh! Screw me up
And make my Spirit bed Blesst and blissfull
Flower, first Thou on me. Thy
Sweet print her shaft flies
Soaring up—Make for me mine
                Tender Bowells run Out streams
Of Grace dropt in thy mouth that   
Cries Eate, Eate me, me dub
With Golden Rod, set my knot
With Honeysuckles, a Rich stick in
My breast, my Spiknard in His
Bright Sedan, through all the Silver Stars
                Rocks and rock, Turffe of Clay, Clod
                Darker by far than any coal-pit stone
All Whirlewinde, All God, All Gone
 

The candles sloughing in convolutions of themselves.  Edward undulating upward like a mermaid to the ceiling of the sea.  I look at the open book on the table.  I guess this is where I live now.

 

2)  Emily Dickinson by Melissa Broder

I am loathe to fuck the dead. I am over the dead. I want to fuck many a living poetboy (rarely for their words) but this want is an illusion, just as fucking the dead is an illusion, because fucking the living is never how we imagine it will be.

I imagine a living poetboy writes the words RUN AWAY WITH ME on his palm and flashes it to me during a reading. Then he fingers me with that hand in a dark alley. I imagine there is kissing on the mouth, then my pussy, then back to the mouth. Eye contact must be sustained throughout the many hours of rotation from mouth to pussy to mouth. Somehow we are back indoors now.

The poetboy must tell me to take as much time as I need to feel pleasure, the longer the better (sort of the opposite of a poetry reading). He must convey a ravenous hunger for my pussy—an I WILL DIE IF I DO NOT TASTE THIS—and the hairier and dirtier my pussy, the more painful the death if he does not taste it. A woman’s casolette is the essence of the woman herself, so to die for a rank casolette is to die for the whole woman with all of her darkesses. Nothing is hotter than that.

But each of these scenes must be perfectly choreographed if they are to translate from fantasy to reality. This means spontaneity will be lacking. If the poetboyfuck does not live up to my narrative, then it is a destroyer of fantasy. It is no good. If the poetboyfuck turns out to be better than my fantasy, then I want the poetboy’s worship, obsession and “love” (as defined by my own solipsism) to come with it. And you can’t choreograph the feelings of another human being. So I am confined to my room with my computer and my fantasies.

When I was 19 I wrote a poem called “Eating Emily Dickinson.” The poem was about eating out Emily Dickinson. I imagined Emily’s casolette as a hybrid of an emmentaler and a vacherin du Haut-Doubs, a French cheese with a Penicillum mold rind. What made Emily’s casolette so special was not only its smell and taste, but some confidence that I imagined she possessed in its sheer beingness. She knew her pussy could be no other way than the way it was and she embraced that. There was a complete acceptance of selfhood: solitary and fermenting with the rhythm of the seasons.

Now I imagine Emily living in our world. I imagine Emily in the shower, a shower with a glass door and on the door appears three amorphous splotches. Emily identifies the shape of these splotches right away as phalluses with testes. She then perceives this moment as sort of a Rorschach: one that shows her where her mind is at.

I imagine Emily feels some shame in having immediately assigned the splotches a sexual identity. Perhaps they could instead be rocket ships blasting off or switchblades in fisted hands. She then wonders about the reductive nature of her own mind and whether it has been limited by her relationship to internet pornography. Emily wonders if she was in some ways more creative 5-10 years ago, prior to her immersion in internet pornography. She wonders whether this loss of creativity is her fault. She feels the opposite of good.

I imagine Emily then turns her thinking to sexuality in America. Perhaps she does this as a defense mechanism against her bad feelings about herself. She thinks about how sexuality in America is this weird hybrid of Puritan cleanliness and Capitalist exhibitionism, which leaves little room for the nuances of the cassolette. I imagine Emily feels momentarily rebellious and empowered, as it is no longer her own mind she must rebel against but an outside structure.

I imagine Emily then washes her bald pussy anyway with a citrus-scented body wash. I imagine she washes it twice.

3)  Johann Wolfgang von Goethe by J.Hope Stein

I read Faust (Part I) for the first time this month and had a pretty strong reaction to the architecture.  The compound nature of the story-telling – set-up on top of set-up, short quick scenes that move back and forth between each other – a narrative syntax I wrongly thought was first developed in the earliest era of film.  For this reason, and perhaps because I was starving for a friend who has pursued a messy long-form verse, Goethe has quickly become one of my closest friends (I am 4 years into my own mess).  The first translation I read, although I’m looking at a couple other translations now,  was by David Constantine who said this in an interview – “I believe in a sort of coincidence of reading and existential need:  I mean, authors arrive as we need them and help us along the way. The best loved writers arrive, depart and return again differently, according to our own changes and development.”

In terms of interpretations of the text itself, I can’t help but to think that the agreement that binds Mephistopheles and Faust is a simple story of sadomasochistic love.    Their premise of quid pro quo, seems only an excuse for two beings who are joyless & nonplussed in their own lives to exchange something at a deeper more feeling sensory level.  Yes, Faust conjures Mephisto, but Mephisto had already chosen Faust — to me that is one of the central points of the Prologue in Heaven.  And there are 2 scenes in Faust’s study, back-to-back, which I find structurally unnecessary other than to communicate this:   in the first scene in the study, Faust conjures Mephisto and in the second scene in the study, Mephisto comes to Faust (un-conjured)– which he continues to do throughout, including his obsessive instigation of Faust’s deflowering and destroying of Gretchen–  an innocent girl who is only foreplay to the affair between F & M. Which by the way, I think is a decent alternative term for S&M – F&M.

Mephisto says this to Faust in his study:

Your senses will enjoy, my friend
In this one hour far more
than in a humdrum year entire.
 
 

In other words– Love.

I think M is in love with F & F
in love with M.   &  this notion
of quid pro quo —

I think they’d do it for free.

 

4) Federico Garcia Lorca by Sara Lefsyk

It was the hour of sleeping crocodiles.  Federico, you tossed a wilderness of bleeding pigeons into my heart.  I said take me to the friend of dead-smashed butterflies.  Take me to the miniature priests of idiot-brains.  And Federico, you climbed the great mountain of burnt-up flowers in the dark saying “one must wait a thousand years under the cancerous moon to touch the dried-out body of the moth.

And because blood has no sadness one must drown her gods in a sea of infinite kitchens.”

Federico!  Seller of the sky and of gutted-out horses, of the lost landscape of the apple, and the eyes of dogs and skulls and of dug-up roots.  You wore a night-mask of phosphorous and sharp lilies and tore the hems of my gowns.

And I said, Federico of a million granite buildings and of tears, I want a strand that will tremble in the presence of your stillness.  But it was the moment of live fish and broken microscopes and you lifted the black curtains of air.  Your face a bud of light, you smashed the mute fossil of living air and gave to me an earring and handfuls of rope.

But I wanted to sleep the sleep of the infinite crocodile inside your golden chest, so I tied eight ghosts and a thousand sequins to your hair and wore the gloves of one hundred sadnesses under the lemon shadow of your actual dreams.  Federico of torn cloth and murdered grass, of the terrible violence of ants and the nocturnal rooster of madness.  Federico of a thousand tiny birds.

5)  Jean Genet by Janaka Stucky

THERE IS A CLOSE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN FLOWERS AND CONVICTS

 
Jean my love
for you is prison rape
is the vine of moon flowers strangling
the sign post outside the prison
where ex-cons wait with bowed heads
for the bus to return them to the world
 
Jean my love
for you is a tube of vaseline
tucked tightly in the pocket of my jeans
the cops find when they pick me up
is the hot shame I feel as I grow hard
handcuffed to the cold pipe
waiting to be booked
 
Jean my love
for you is a porcelain tomb
at the center of a black continent
is rose water is roses is thorns
tearing the tender palms
of my outstretched hands
 
Jean my love
my fire burning blackly beneath
every breath I exhale upon your neck
I bind my steps with ropes of honeysuckle
and tread sweetly on your naked chest
 
Jean my fire
my exquisite wound
my stone of blood in a lake of nails
I run my tongue along each vein
and quake and quake and quake
and quake
 
Jean my quaking wound
my alabaster chainsaw cleaving
the ocean from me
 
Jean my ocean
my night
I am blacking out
 
Jean my Genet
my Jean my Jean
I am forever pinned
at the limit of your eyes
 
Jean my forever
Jean forever
Jean
Jean
Jean

6) Henry Miller by Maria Garcia Teutsch

Henry Miller says about poetry: Write about what’s inside you . . . the great vertiginous verterbration . . . the zoospores and leukocytes . . . the wamroths . . . and the holenlindens . . .  every one’s a poem. The jellyfish is a poem too . . .

The Ocean Rectangles My Thursdays

Your absence tastes like a meteor shower
over the squashed moon of my head
setting in the mail of rust.
 
On the water, an ampersand carved by blue boats, I remember.
 
The tide erases the concept of a tide.
 
And I find you in this erasure,
sometimes a tin fish in a locket.
 
Around my neck a moat, a pod of tinges swim,
and you, Henry, are sometimes a sea-eagle floating
 
from out of nowhere. On days when you do not turn up
the sea becomes
the sea.

7) John Donne by Leah Umansky

My Dead Poetry Crush is John Donne(and it’s not just how great he looks in this hat). When you think about dead poets you want to $%&!#, the unforbidden comes to the mind, and so naturally, a priest who had a secret marriage fits the bill.  (Plus, my anglophilia plays a role). I remember reading Donne’s poems in the good ol’ Norton Anthology back in Brit Lit I during my undergrad days at SUNY Binghamton, and feeling connected to his love poems and sonnets.  I remember “The Sun Rising” was one of my favorites because of the intensity in which he talks about his beloved.

(I can’t lie -the priest factor is sexy,right?)  Then again, I could be regressing back to my childhood when I read sweeping romances like Gone with the Wind  and The Thorn Birds  and had my heart broken. At a young age, I remember sobbing over Father Ralph de Bricassart, from Colleen McCullough’s  The Thorn Birds.  Maybe Father Ralph is the reason I fell for Father Donne.

Below is a section of “The Sun Rising” that I especially love.  Especially that first line  … sigh…

She’s all states, and all princes I;
Nothing else is;
Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honour’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, Sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus;
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.

8) Marina Tsvetaeva by Gregory Crosby

 

A man is invented and a hurricane begins, wrote her cuckolded husband, but it was Marina’s affair with a woman, they say, that drove him in desperation and depression to enlist. There were many men too, each a hurricane to spin and spend itself, leaving her spent.

There was revolution, separation, and a child, too, dead from starvation; the years of White and Red; the stranglehold of Comrade Steel. But that’s all in the future—here, in 1916, she and I, she and eye, across the blank whites and faded reds of time, find a communion:

Where does such tenderness come from?
These aren’t the first curls
I’ve wound around my finger—
I’ve kissed lips darker than yours.
 
The sky is washed and dark
(Where does such tenderness come from?)
Other eyes have known
and shifted away from my eyes.
 
But I’ve never heard words like this
in the night
(Where does such tenderness come from?)
with my head on your chest, rest.
 
Where does this tenderness come from?
And what will I do with it? Young
stranger, poet, wandering through town,
you and your eyelashes—longer than anyone’s.
 

Marina, have I told you—I address you, I can’t help it, and whenever I read Kenneth Koch’s “To Marina” I think somehow he too is addressing you, even though I know he is/isn’t—about my long eyelashes? From high school onward, so many girls, either close up upon the white of the pillow or across the impenetrable red of their lipstick, have told me I’m so envious, you have such long, beautiful eyelashes, it’s so unfair, you’re a boy, boys shouldn’t have such long eyelashes. I never knew what to say to this. I felt guilty and pleased and odd, since nothing else about me seemed to partake of such gifts.

But Marina, reading your letters, I know what to say. I know where this tenderness comes from now, and I have always known, even before I knew its origins, what to do with it. I have never heard those words in the night, and did not recognize at first my own voice, saying them. In the life of a symbolist everything is symbolic, you write. There is nothing that is not symbolic.

Ah, but symbolic of what, asks the professor, and the possessor, and the young poet, becoming younger by the moment.

I close my eyes, and open them, slowly, lashing out at the world, tenderly, and read you, your open eyes, the words, the page, again, again, again.

9) Henry Wadsworth Longfellow by Lauren Gordon

 

THEY’RE LONGFELLOWS

Later, when the children were asleep
we snuffed the candle and furled
under the heavy quilt and the ghost
of your last wife floated atop the bed
like a wax stamp and your breath rose
and your breath fell
amongst thread, the night air
the tickle of an American whisker:
I remembered the first time I fell in love with you
and your vigor:
Life is real!  Life is earnest!

Over coffee in a brass urn
with the children bed-headed
but polite, we butter our bread on both sides
and wait for the birds to lift the trees
with the surprise of morning —
Life is real.  Life is earnest.

A century later in pajamas
a leather chair holds us under a soft light
rain patters, the carpet in the basement dampens
and something in the attic is frantic to be heard.

10) T. S. Eliot by Kristy Bowen

Dear Tom.
I’ve thought about it and you’re right, April is the cruelest month. I think of you all afternoon at the bank, the sleeves of your dress shirt rolled just above your wrists, holding the short stub of a pencil bent over the massive wooden desk, wiping your forehead and beginning again to write. Oh Tom, my nerves are bad tonight. What are you thinking? When summer came it wrecked me. I dreamed of clairvoyantes and tiny pearl eyes for weeks. Your voice a yellow fog that licked its way up and down my spine. I wrote poems about coffee spoons and clties crumbling around me.I imagine you the calmness surrounded by tempestuous women and hundreds of unruly cats. I have known the hours, known them all. But really, that is not what I meant. Not at all.
 
At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest –
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows one final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . .

11)  Rainer Maria Rilke by Joanna Penn Cooper

Once in my late 20s, I found myself walking along Lombard Street in Philadelphia listening to the Duino Elegies being read aloud by a tall young man who walked a few paces ahead of me as he read, occasionally half-turning to see what effect your words were having on me.  If I cried out who would hear me up there among the angelic orders?  [pause-turn-glance]  It was, anyway, one of those fall days in that city when the light hits the brick row houses in the late afternoon in a way that creates a feeling both pure and tempestuous, a feeling of being in the first throes of a soulful but short-lived passionate romance.  And this man, as I have mentioned, was very tall.  So, you can imagine.  He kept pausing as he read to say things like, “What does that even mean?  Do you know what that even means?”  He would read your words– Beauty is only the first touch of terror we can bear and it awes us so much because it so coolly disdains to destroy us—   then he would turn to interrogate me about it, and I would be speechless.

Rainer, I am no longer so young, and I have read the Duino Elegies on my own many times since then.  And I do, in fact, have an idea of what it means to me, even if I am, in fact, still speechless.  I will meet you in the afternoon, with the light like that, in a place where we can be together and also alone, as we always are.  You will chide me, Is it easier for lovers?  Ah, they only manage by being together to conceal each other’s fate!  I will choke back my own dark birdcall my sobbing.  Dear Rainer.

12) Edgar Allan Poe by Susan Yount

Sometimes I’m terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants. The way it stops and starts.” –Edgar Allan Poe [with whom I’d happily get drunk and take advantage of.]

Edgar Allan Poe’s poem “Annabel Lee” was one of the last poems he ever wrote and the first poem to ever move me. It was quite literally the first time I had ever realized there was real love and lamenting in the world. Of course, I was a tween at the time and had more or less already experienced a rotten life of my own. Therefore, I was immediately drawn to the details of Poe’s life and charmed with his struggle, poverty, tragedies and of course, his triumphs too. Many nights I’ve passed with his poems and stories still in my bed, still in my head. His macabre and passion still turn me on today. I’d gladly have been his matron and I’d have begged him to take me. I’d easily have loosened my corset and exposed my wounds. I’d have caressed his head and taken his jingle into my soul. Furthermore, I’d have whipped Whitman for suggesting Poe had no heat, for I would have known. There is indeed lasting heat in the haunting.

I leave you with my dead lover and I banging The Bells; the last poem Poe ever wrote.

I

Hear the sledges with the bells –
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells –
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

II

Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight! –
From the molten – golden notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle – dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future! – how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells –
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells –
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

III

Hear the loud alarum bells –
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now – now to sit, or never,
By the side of the pale – faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells –
Of the bells –
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells –
In the clamor and the clanging of the bells!

IV

Hear the tolling of the bells –
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people – ah, the people –
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone –
They are neither man nor woman –
They are neither brute nor human –
They are Ghouls: –
And their king it is who tolls: –
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells: –
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells –
Of the bells, bells, bells: –
To the sobbing of the bells: –
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells –
Of the bells, bells, bells –
To the tolling of the bells –
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells, –
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.