mypoemblog

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“ sunrise, parabellum ” after disco elysium

you ever get brain worms so bad about a game you have to write a poem about it. anyway

(plain text version of all 3 readings below the cut!)

harry: tasting the ash / that coated the inside of / your lungs on my tongue is / the closest i’ll ever get to worship / i see them now, blooming brighter / than the butts of our cigarettes / i want to sink to my knees, beg forgive- / ness, beg oh god will i ever be the same / after this? i’ve been suffocating in smoke / since sweet oblivion stole the sunrise / this quiet communion will kill us still / in time, i promise; until then ruin / me with your breath, let the golden / glow of your divine innocence / decay in my lungs — i reach out / hold the fragile fluttering cage of / your life and i know, i know / how easily it'd crumple / if i just close my fist

kim: in your absence, for all / my life, i was told to believe / “blasphemy”; but this will always be / nothing more than watching strangers / living more than me, discarding more / oh, my dear, how little faith i held in you and / me, forgive all my doubt in your hurricane- / self, when your trembling hands hold mine / unknowing, uncaring of all that has come / i realize i never could have predicted you / in the face of something far grander / my lungs long decayed, you revive / sunrises whose brilliance eclipses the / corrupted and cursed, yet still forgiving / over and over and over / faith be damned, i want to guard / whatever it is we’re building / so i promise like a hymn / i will trust you.

together: tasting the ash in your absence, for all / that coated the inside of my life, i was told to believe / your lungs on my tongue is “blasphemy”; but this will always be / the closest i’ll ever get to worship nothing more than watching strangers / i see them now, blooming brighter living more than me, discarding more / than the butts of our cigarettes oh, my dear, how little faith i held in you and / i want to sink to my knees, beg forgive me, forgive all my doubt in your hurricane- / ness, beg oh god will i ever be the same self, when your trembling hands hold mine / after this? i’ve been suffocating in smoke unknowing, uncaring of all that has come / since sweet oblivion stole the sunrise i realize i never could have predicted you / this quiet communion will still kill us in the face of something far grander, / in time, but until then, please, ruin my lungs long decayed, you revive / me with your breath, let the golden sunrises whose brilliance eclipses the / glow of your divine innocence corrupted and cursed, yet still forgiving / decay in my lungs — i reach out over and over and over / hold the fragile fluttering cage of faith be damned, i want to guard / your life and i know, i know whatever it is we’re building / how easily it’d crumple so i promise like a hymn / if i just close my fist i will trust you.

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just because someone can articulate their point better doesn’t make them right, it makes them articulated. 

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thinking of jesus at the gay bar again………

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by Yehuda Amichai, translated by Chana Bloch

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This note was written by a child who was listening in on a bunch of artists discussing art and life.

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i hate it when i cant even write a poem about something because its too obvious. like in the airbnb i was at i guess it used to be a kids room cause you could see the imprint of one little glow in the dark star that had been missed and painted over in landlord white. like that's a poem already what's the point

[mypoemblog]

The Rebel Jesus

Jackson Browne

All the streets are filled with laughter and light

And the music of the season

And the merchants' windows are all bright

With the faces of the children

And the families hurrying to their homes

As the sky darkens and freezes

Will be gathering around their hearths and tables

Giving thanks for God's graces

And the birth of the rebel Jesus

And they call Him by the "Prince Of Peace"

And they call Him by "The Saviour"

And they pray to Him upon the seas

And in every bold endeavour

And they fill His churches with their pride and gold

As their faith in Him increases

But they've turned the nature that I worship in

From a temple to a robber's den

In the words of the rebel Jesus

We guard our world with locks and guns

And we guard our fine possessions

And once a year when Christmas comes

We give to our relations

And perhaps we give a little to the poor

If the generosity should seize us

But if anyone of us should interfere

In the business of why there are poor

They get the same as the rebel Jesus

But pardon me if I have seemed

To take the tone of judgement

For I've no wish to come between

This day and your enjoyment

In a life of hardship and of earthly toil

There's a need for anything that frees us

So I bid you pleasure and I bid you cheer

From a heathen and a pagan

On the side of the rebel Jesus

[mypoemblog]

Shifter

it is easy to envy the shifter who runs with canid grace and flies on borrowed bones who hears metaphor in whalesong and drinks deep ultraviolet radiance

but what of the loss of such gifts with every shift?

we, landbound, tasting flight with our eyes forever cast skyward mourn every pang of loss upon waking from that dream of wing and loft and break

so how must the shifter feel?

with a thousand phantom limbs a hundred phantom senses mourning loss of seal language when in a form without ears doleful glare at sweet berries while a carnivoran tongue cannot taste its kiss hot tea left un-drunk in a garden where eyes no longer reach the full spectrum

a price must be made for each gift purchased and I know not whether I could stand the strain of a life in such elated grief

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There's a certain Slant of light,

Winter Afternoons –

That oppresses, like the Heft

Of Cathedral Tunes –

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –

We can find no scar,

But internal difference –

Where the Meanings, are –

None may teach it – Any –

'Tis the seal Despair –

An imperial affliction

Sent us of the Air –

When it comes, the Landscape listens –

Shadows – hold their breath –

When it goes, 'tis like the Distance

On the look of Death –

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it's december happy "I Heard a Bird Sing" by oliver herford season

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Sea Fever

John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,

And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

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MOST WANTED by Mohjah Kahf

Warning: God has slipped the noose.

We must confirm the worst

of our righteous fears –

God has escaped the mosque,

the synagogue, the church

where we’ve locked up God for years.

God is on the loose.

Henceforth beware:

You may find God in heathen beauty.

You may stumble upon God unaware.

Take appropriate measures:

You may have to behave

as if each human being

could reflect God’s face.

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- Ollie Schminkey, My Father.

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hope is a skill

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What's that poem about the cockroach and the moth where the cockroach is like "I wish I've ever wanted anything the way that moth wanted to burn itself up in that lantern" because we had to read that in high school and it still fucks me up to this day

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Tweet from Joseph Fasano: "An 8th-grade student of @MrsHult wrote this poem using one of my poetry prompts, and I just cannot get over that second line. ❤️ Emily, I hope the world sees your poem."

Poem in image:

Angels

Let the fears be short. Let the funerals be beautiful. Let every memory inside me find its way to the heart and walk carefully, slowly toward this world. I have a story I have never told: Once, when I was alone, I looked up at the sky and saw shadows of my family and I knew I was a girl made of angels. I am still a girl made of angels. -- Emily, grade 8