tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43035987900308948112012-02-17T05:55:41.500+11:00A collection of poetrytraveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.comBlogger1011100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-41338746108995583842011-11-11T19:24:00.000+11:002011-11-11T19:24:14.564+11:00

In Flanders fields the poppies blow       Between the crosses, row on row,    That mark our place; and in the sky    The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,    Loved and were loved, and now we lie,          In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-21997333790261191312011-08-11T11:37:00.000+10:002011-08-11T11:37:08.993+10:00

I love a sunburnt country, A land of sweeping plains, Of ragged mountain ranges, Of droughts and flooding rains. I love her far horizons, I love her jewel-sea, Her beauty and her terror – The wide brown land for me!

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-69742350997615187512011-07-27T12:37:00.002+10:002011-07-27T12:37:41.408+10:00

I lied a little. There are things I don’t want to tell you. How lonely I am today and sick at heart. How the rain falls steadily and cold on a garden grown greener, more lush and even less tame. I haven’t done much, I confess, to contain it. The grapevine, as usual, threatens everything in its path, while the raspberry canes, aggressive and abundant, are clearly out of control. I’m afraid the

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-40612411716793427972011-07-27T12:34:00.000+10:002011-07-27T12:34:17.077+10:00

I've been meaning to tell you how the sky is pink here sometimes like the roof of a mouth that's about to chomp down on the crooked steel teeth of the city, I remember the desperate things we did                 and that I stumble down sidewalks listening to the buzz of street lamps at dusk and the crush of leaves on the pavement, Without you here I'm viciously lonely and I can't remember

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-27670194255114386702011-07-27T12:33:00.000+10:002011-07-27T12:33:04.447+10:00

There was a time I could say no one I knew well had died. This is not to suggest no one died. When I was eight my mother became pregnant. She went to the hospital to give birth and returned without the baby. Where's the baby? we asked. Did she shrug? She was the kind of woman who liked to shrug; deep within her was an everlasting shrug. That didn't seem like a death. The years went by and people

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-35852420057839671162011-07-27T12:17:00.000+10:002011-07-27T12:17:09.675+10:00

I always thought death would be like traveling in a car, moving through the desert, the earth a little darker than sky at the horizon, that your life would settle like the end of a day and you would think of everyone you ever met, that you would be the invisible passenger, quiet in the car, moving through the night, forever, with the beautiful thought of home. From http://www.poets.org

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-23371918363182320042011-05-08T23:32:00.001+10:002011-05-08T23:34:20.884+10:00

Glass balls and glowing lights.Dead tree in living room.Killed to honor birth.Source: http://www.toyomasu.com/haiku/, 8 May 2011

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-22023322671200084172011-05-08T23:29:00.002+10:002011-05-08T23:34:53.763+10:00

Silence--a strangledTelephone has forgottenThat it should ringFreeway overpass--Blossoms in grafitti onfog-wrapped June morningsSource: http://www.toyomasu.com/haiku, 8 May 2011

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-8875868327048284782011-05-08T23:15:00.007+10:002011-05-08T23:25:40.772+10:00

city streetthe briefest touchof a stranger's hand Source: http://users.mullum.com.au/jbird/dreaming/ozku.html, 8 May 2011

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-81694740358455494922011-05-08T23:06:00.004+10:002011-05-08T23:24:14.711+10:00

“I fucked up bad”: Justin cracks his neck,talking to nobody. Fifteen responsible children,final semester college seniors, bloodshot,collars undone, gorgeously exhausted,return from Wall Street interviewsin attitudes of surrender on the Dinky—the one-car commuter train connectingPrinceton to the New York line. Panic-sweatsheens their faces. Justin hasn’t seen me yet.“Something’s fucked with my tie

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-13526326843272003632011-04-12T20:52:00.005+10:002011-05-09T00:02:07.160+10:00

What we will remember—we tried to take the dog, packed around him, making a cozy spot at the back of the Subaru, blocking out the sun, resisting the obvious— he was too old, he would not make it. And when he died in Minnesota, we smelled and smelled his paws, arthritic and untouchable these last many years, took those marvelous paws up into our faces. They smelled of dark clay and sweet flower

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-47499432874252554562011-04-12T20:39:00.003+10:002011-04-12T21:03:07.300+10:00

After my night job, I sat in class and ate, every thirteen minutes, an orange peanut-butter cracker. Bright grease adorned my notes.At noon I rushed to my day job and pushed a broom enoughto keep the boss calm if not happy. In a hiding place, walled offby bolts of calico and serge,I read my masters and copiedDonne, Marlowe, Dickinson, and Frost, scrawling the words I envied,so my hand could move

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-27759745014783129602011-02-21T16:10:00.000+11:002011-02-21T16:11:02.555+11:00

She's slicing ripe white peachesinto the Tony the Tiger bowland dropping slivers for the dogpoised vibrating by her foot to stop their fallwhen she spots it, camouflaged,a glimmer and then full on—happiness, plashing blunt soft wingsinside her as if it wantsto escape again.Source: Poetry magazine, (October 2008).http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=182268

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-52432336205771447522010-12-26T22:06:00.010+11:002010-12-26T22:16:55.668+11:00

“Talking only makes me feel more alone,”you said once in the car outside the clinic.Two years later, you spoke the same sentenceword for word one night after friends had gone.Within a month, you’d erased yourself    . . .Erased? “To absent oneself,” I found scribbled ona wrapper a year later    ...                                Now sunlight and treeshadow rush over the windshield of  the car:I’m

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-78511887983735735212010-12-26T21:57:00.002+11:002010-12-26T22:00:24.014+11:00

The present tenseis the body’s past tensehere; hencethe ghost sludge of handson the now gray stripof towel hanging limpfrom the jammed dispenser;hence the mirrorsquinting through grimeat grime, and the worn-to-a-sliver of soiled soapon the soiled sink.The streaked bowl,the sticky toilet seat, airclaustral with stink—all residues and tracesof the ancestralspirit of body freeof spirit—hence,behind

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-9099441273918550822010-08-06T22:08:00.001+10:002010-08-06T22:10:02.417+10:00

You are not beautiful, exactly.You are beautiful, inexactly.You let a weed grow by the mulberryand a mulberry grow by the house.So close, in the personal quietof a windy night, it brushes the walland sweeps away the day till we sleep.A child said it, and it seemed true:"Things that are lost are all equal."But it isn't true. If I lost you,the air wouldn't move, nor the tree grow.Someone would pull

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-37151146558398743762010-03-22T23:30:00.002+11:002010-03-22T23:38:22.985+11:00

I have no wit, no words, no tears;        My heart within me like a stoneIs numb’d too much for hopes or fears;        Look right, look left, I dwell alone;I lift mine eyes, but dimm’d with grief        No everlasting hills I see;My life is in the falling leaf:        O Jesus, quicken me.My life is like a faded leaf,        My harvest dwindled to a husk:Truly my life is void and brief       

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-52423674902948299372010-03-22T23:24:00.002+11:002010-03-22T23:29:13.760+11:00

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,And Mourners to and froKept treading – treading – till it seemedThat Sense was breaking through – And when they all were seated,A Service, like a Drum – Kept beating – beating – till I thoughtMy Mind was going numb – And then I heard them lift a BoxAnd creak across my SoulWith those same Boots of Lead, again,Then Space – began to toll,As all the Heavens were a Bell,

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-69426699969701151192010-03-21T17:24:00.003+11:002010-04-11T15:38:48.111+10:00

That faint booming as cars coast across the bridge,the ravenous slap of wind on glassconspire to turn the thoughts in one direction:your going. A night like any might have beenbefore you crossed the road, waited for the liftthat you'd been taking there for years. I watched you go,dividing in my mind the spoils of that brief war,taking pictures from their nails, photographs from framesthat later,

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-45244323736525845662010-01-01T23:42:00.002+11:002010-01-01T23:43:27.064+11:00

I am blind, you outsiders. It is a curse,a contradiction, a tiresome farce,and every day I despair.I put my hand on the arm of my wife(colorless hand on colorless sleeve)and she walks me through empty air.You push and shove and think that you’ve beensounding different from stone against stone,but you are mistaken: I alonelive and suffer and howl.In me there is an endless outcryand I can’t tell

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-41181256981592446522010-01-01T23:40:00.000+11:002010-01-01T23:41:19.501+11:00

There are times when I am with youWhen there is no beginning or ending of timeWhen the day is datelessAnd the rhythm of timeHas ceased to record the hoursAnd the calendar, the days;When no birds sing, but rest;And no winds blow, but breathe.And the air is drenchedWith the white silence of loveAnd my fingers traceThe lineaments of your face.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-13599946919651172352010-01-01T23:37:00.000+11:002010-01-01T23:39:40.982+11:00

It’s almost too early for coffee and the sun glares at me as it pulls itself over the windowsill, but I’m happy. I’m making an omelette. I’m standing in the kitchen, whistling in my boxer shorts, and my testicles are swinging in perfect time. It’s going to be a great day. It’s already a great morning and the first egg I broke was a double yolk. The rest of the eggs are quite normal, as is the

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-14224824470110982852009-12-29T12:59:00.001+11:002009-12-29T13:02:59.358+11:00

          Experience epresses, discolours his vision. Rainlight depresses the room, the fire, snug as fantasy, imperative to sanity this time. I say, “They say in danger one’s instincts are always wrong.” “Not if you’ve perverted your instructs as long as I have,” he responds. I study his auden-face, destroyed by reason’s pits and lines. So highly strung, so debonair, the violin confiding

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-13981180447677060072009-12-29T12:52:00.000+11:002009-12-29T12:52:42.262+11:00

The sky through these two windows an eggshell blue. Outside the birds chip away at the night, and I, as cuckoo-man, prepare to leave this nest. Day cracks open, harsh light soars in. From ‘On Struggle Street – An Anthology of New Poets’, 1989, edited by Dorothy Porter and John Millett. Poetry Australia 122, South Head Press.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-45268759734941497822009-12-28T23:05:00.000+11:002009-12-28T23:06:42.365+11:00

Don’t want to know if we willnever again stay, hours as vapour,walking out later into surprising dawn.High shoes in hand and thenight’s city sordidness printingmy feet. You with the grey pallorof alcohol, scalp crawling light,a dingy glow in the bend of your neck.It’s a long way home and the city wakes:orange billows on filthy glass, greasywater on warming concrete, the nausea of no-sleep.We’ve

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-86280007371919421902009-12-28T22:58:00.002+11:002009-12-28T23:05:06.033+11:00

If you want to take my hand,cover the arcs and stripes of my lifelineswith your own,don’t ask meto dothe military two.I don’t want to shufflelike a well behaved pedestrianto the rightto the leftto the right againturn and directa mortal kick.I don’t want to be bound upby neat routinesdone beforedone again;boxed in,a product;a man on a factory floor,eye on the clockwaiting for the clamour to

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-58061634692352122242009-12-28T22:57:00.001+11:002009-12-28T22:58:34.477+11:00

…For days, because there is no rain,the blood is there.Where no-one looks I go and stareand that’s in me too,how it changes colourand goes deeper into itselflike fear or shame,retreating, retreating.And there are bright snailsmunching young leavesin my stomach.From ‘On Struggle Street – An Anthology of New Poets’, 1989, edited by Dorothy Porter and John Millett. Poetry Australia 122, South Head

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-18141060096729808782009-12-28T22:55:00.000+11:002009-12-28T22:56:52.192+11:00

Every houseis painted in dockyard greycrackedin the emphysemic smokeof B.H.P.’s wasting industry.A foreclosure noticestuffed in the letter boxwarrantsa for-sale signpitched in the front yard –a feeble crucifixit marks the graveof a steel worker’s collapsing dream.Priced to includea fence that cannot keep faith withinand a lawnscarred beyond believing.No. You would not choose to live on this

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-49139877329522758152009-12-28T22:54:00.002+11:002009-12-28T22:55:29.560+11:00

you’ve let yourself goyou old cowhe said once too often –and so she didpack the suitcaseload the handbagshe didlet herself go.From ‘On Struggle Street – An Anthology of New Poets’, 1989, edited by Dorothy Porter and John Millett. Poetry Australia 122, South Head Press.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-72431171443419838852009-12-28T22:50:00.002+11:002009-12-28T22:55:48.912+11:00

Taking me hometearingback down the Pacific Highwayyou decided on a romantic gesture –you drove us off the edge.A driven man you saidand snatched at my trembling hands.Holding themtight as a first prizeyou cried that you missed these hands.These handsshaking from post-operative nauseaare the same handsthat held our screaming baby girlsmoothing awayall her night’s anxietieswith a pattingdrummed-out

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-12482240824227435622009-07-25T12:38:00.001+10:002009-07-25T12:41:35.162+10:00

There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public.There are worse things than these miniature betrayals,committed or endured or suspected; there are worse thingsthan not being able to sleep for thinking about them.It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking inand stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse and worse.From ‘101 Poems That Could Save Your Life’, D. Goodwin (ed

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-43911471115873354022009-07-25T12:26:00.000+10:002009-07-25T12:28:50.889+10:00

Because my mother and fatherhurt each otherI will abandon yousooner or latersomebody will learnfrom the experiencethat imitation has nothing to dowith flattery.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-57985884203166808842009-06-28T14:14:00.002+10:002009-06-28T14:17:03.729+10:00

I know what my heart is like      Since your love died:It is like a hollow ledgeHolding a little pool      Left there by the tide      A little tepid pool,Drying inward from the edge.From ‘Poetry and Language’. B. Kellow and J. Krisak (eds), 1983.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-66705601746124919932009-06-28T13:57:00.003+10:002009-06-28T14:00:07.422+10:00

It was your birthday, we had drunk and dinedHalf of the night with our old friendWho'd showed us in the endTo a bed I reached in one drunk stride.Already I lay snug,And drowsy with the wine dozed on one side.I dozed, I slept. My sleep broke on a hug,Suddenly, from behind,In which the full lengths of our bodies pressed:Your instep to my heel,My shoulder-blades against your chest.It was not sex,

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-85802671781705025722009-06-25T13:16:00.001+10:002009-06-25T13:19:15.066+10:00

At last the secret is out,as it always must come in the end,the delicious story is ripe to tellto tell to the intimate friend;over the tea-cups and into the squarethe tongues has its desire;still waters run deep, my dear,there’s never smoke without fire. Behind the corpse in the reservoir,behind the ghost on the links,behind the lady who dancesand the man who madly drinks,under the look of

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-66340059090380475702009-06-25T13:13:00.001+10:002009-06-25T13:14:43.350+10:00

That hot September night, we slept in a single bed,naked, and on our frail bodies the sweatcooled and renewed itself. I reached out my armsand you, hands on my breasts, kissed me. Evening of amber.Our nightgowns lay on the floor where you fell to your kneesand became ferocious, pressed your head to my stomach,your mouth to the red gold, the pink shadows; exceptI did not see it like this at the

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-182047884996735632009-06-22T13:45:00.001+10:002009-06-22T13:45:39.850+10:00

Long ago, I was wounded. I livedto revenge myselfagainst my father, notfor what he was –for what I was: from the beginning of time,in childhood, I thoughtthat pain meantI was not loved.It meant I loved.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-90884703328901813802009-06-22T13:42:00.000+10:002009-06-22T13:43:27.253+10:00

What shall a womanDo with her ego,Faced with the choiceThat it go or he go?

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-27036543566362737902009-06-22T13:37:00.002+10:002009-12-28T22:49:30.755+11:00

That search most difficult – the getting to knowSomeone, collecting the pieces ofThem, finding shelves on whichTo house them, energy with which to dust them off.Only to wipe the shelf clean, sweeping the collected, notAlways collectable or desired fragments aside –Until you’ve got what you started withA bare slate –The surface of the human soulThat is.That world unknown –Whose boundaries are

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-72731723482234826932009-06-22T13:34:00.001+10:002009-06-22T13:34:53.452+10:00

Drink and dance and laugh and lie,Love, the reeling midnight through,For tomorrow we shall die!(But, alas, we never do.)

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-85285782766075320792009-06-16T15:37:00.001+10:002009-06-16T15:38:09.087+10:00

And the stone word fellOn my still-living breast.Never mind, I was ready.I will manage somehow.Today I have so much to do:I must kill memory once and for all,I must turn my soul to stone,I must learn to live again –Unless … summer’s ardent rustlingIs like a festival outside my window.For a long time I’ve foreseen thisBrilliant day, deserted house.From ‘Complete Poems of Anna Akhmatova, Updated

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-78779459191407270822009-06-16T15:33:00.001+10:002009-06-16T15:33:59.166+10:00

You, love, and I,(He whispers) you and I,And if no more than only you and IWhat care you or I?Counting the beats,Counting the slow heart beats,The bleeding to death of time in slow heart beats,Wakeful they lie.Cloudless day,Night, and a cloudless day,Yet the huge storm will burst upon their heads one dayFrom a bitter sky.Where shall we be,(She whispers) where shall we be,When death strikes home,

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-60491270181811398282009-06-15T13:07:00.001+10:002009-06-15T13:08:33.626+10:00

Against the hardclear ring of the bellsmeasure that quickwhispered tick of our livesFrom ‘Poetry and Language’. B. Kellow and J. Krisak (eds), 1983.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-88064845993531188972009-06-15T13:03:00.001+10:002009-06-15T13:04:42.837+10:00

Better is a dry morsel with quietand a key turning in a front lock,a door that opens onto empty rooms,a lonely mouth watering at the thoughtof a kiss as it reads a trashy romance,and a death undiscovered for several days,and a funeral to which few come,than a house full of feasting with strife

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-36437803399300619682009-06-15T12:59:00.001+10:002009-06-15T13:00:59.736+10:00

Ten years ago it seemed impossibleThat she should ever grow so calm as this,With self-remembrance in her warmest kissAnd dim dried eyes like an exhausted well.Slow-speaking when she had some fact to tell,Silent with long-unbroken silences,Centered in self yet not unpleased to please,Gravely monotonous like a passing bell.Mindful of drudging daily common things,Patient at pastime, patient at her

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-57158216322854114662009-06-12T14:37:00.003+10:002009-06-12T14:39:00.156+10:00

Two days to prepare & three drinksinto the evening knowing what I missed.The others must have before me is strange consolation.Now she enters my head with simple reminders:buying strawberries, Casablanca in the video store,A quick snap framed in my father’s bag while overseas.Viewing the body, I think, only then did I gatherwhat it means to turn to dust (21 or 22 years afterBuying Bowie’s ‘Ashes

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-9314209297757291432009-06-12T14:34:00.001+10:002009-06-12T14:35:16.236+10:00

I knew a simple soldier boyWho grinned at life in empty joy,Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,And whistled early with the lark.In winter trenches, cowed and glum,With crumps and lice and lack of rum,He put a bullet through his brain.No one spoke of him again.You smug-faced crowds with kindling eyeWho cheer when soldier lads march by,Sneak home and pray you’ll never knowThe hell where youth

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-35897605791632744892009-06-12T14:30:00.002+10:002009-06-12T14:30:57.535+10:00

Yesterday I walkedthrough the churchyardand noticedfor the first timethe snowdropson the graves.They must have been there for daysbut Iwas wind-blindedhuddled into myself,so anxiousto refrainmy solitaryidentitythat nothingcould touch methat Icould touch nothing.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-65847980306600587642009-06-11T11:54:00.002+10:002009-06-11T11:55:21.594+10:00

In rooms whose lightsOn winter eveningsMake peepshows of our lives –Behind each windowA stage so cluttered upWith props and furnitureIt’s not surprisingWe make a mess of what beganSo simply with I love you.Look at us: someSlumped in chairsAnd hardly ever speakingAnd others mouthingThe same tired lines to earsThat long ago stopped listening.Once we must have dreamedOf something better.But even

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-8331456372889234272009-06-11T11:48:00.001+10:002009-06-11T11:49:34.810+10:00

It was not meant to hurt.It had been made for happy rememberingBy people who were still too youngTo have learned about memory.Now it is a dangerous weapon, a time-bomb.Which is a kind of body-bomb, long-term, too.Only film, a few frames of you skipping, a few seconds.You aged about ten there, skipping and still skipping.Not very clear grey, made out of mist and smudge.This thing has a fine fuse,

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-30120226668181186772009-06-10T12:45:00.001+10:002009-06-10T12:45:49.961+10:00

The stone went out, dressed as a man.At the party, the stone danced.Late at night in the park, the stonepressed its mouth to the damp earth.The stone did not cry, but periodicallythe gray bowls of its hands would fill with tears.It carried a stick to beat awaythe clouds. It carried a mirrorto remind itself. Having seen the woman once,the stone could not close the woundor make it speak.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-27603827688230759852009-06-10T12:42:00.002+10:002009-06-16T15:45:51.841+10:00

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;Close to the sun in lonely lands,Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;He watches from his mountain walls,And like a thunderbolt he falls.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-83760887541519428582009-06-10T12:39:00.001+10:002009-06-10T12:40:52.575+10:00

The flowers sent here by mistake,signed with a name that no one knew,are turning bad. What shall we do?Our neighbor says they’re not for her,and no one has a birthday near.We should thank someone for the blunder.Is one of us having an affair?At first we laugh, and then we wonder.The iris was the first to die,enshrouded in its sickly-sweetand lingering perfume. The rosesfell one petal at a time,

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-87801945591734075662009-06-08T12:28:00.002+10:002009-06-08T12:28:29.093+10:00

The towels are alreadystained red with clues.Toilet,wash-stand, bidet, showerwalled with slimy tiles, allthe colour of bad teeth.The sleepto people the dark with sighs.The meal is bread soup. The chinatea-stained, hot. The broken cupserves clotted castor sugar.All injuriesthe dull air soothesthe sickliness repairsDue to default, the blows,my clothes were wet, unkemptand I was shrunk in them, and

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-71074048981086224252009-06-08T12:24:00.001+10:002009-06-08T12:24:46.186+10:00

(For and after Michael Mansfield) You made needlework an artlate into the nightdrilling wrought iron lattice workyour arms became heavystill you persistedit was religion you saidyou could not desert your godhis need was yours(so very great)you worked in goldto make a tawdry thingof cotton wool and bloodand punctured skin.Some said you were a poet(you claimed no such skill)others a showmanwith

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-72371215535648981462009-06-08T12:21:00.001+10:002009-06-08T12:21:55.786+10:00

Nobody heard him, the dead man,But still he lay moaning:I was much further out than you thoughtAnd not waving but drowning.Poor chap, he always loved larkingAnd now he’s deadIt must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,They said.Oh, no no no, it was too cold always(Still the dead one lay moaning)I was much too far out all my lifeAnd not waving but drowning.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-79858813293818276552009-06-04T13:40:00.001+10:002009-06-04T13:42:38.962+10:00

        Listening…After a while        I take up my axe againFrom ‘Poetry and Language’. B. Kellow and J. Krisak (eds), 1983.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-51568885066385258342009-06-04T13:38:00.001+10:002009-06-04T13:38:42.095+10:00

Some socks are loners – They can’t live in pairs.On washdays they’ve shown usThey want to be loners.They puzzle their owners,They hide in dark lairs.Some socks are loners – They won’t live in pairs.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-16103521390831105532009-06-04T13:34:00.002+10:002009-06-04T13:34:57.978+10:00

A man on his own in a carIs revenging himself on his wife;He opens the throttle and bubbles with dottleand puffs at his pitiful lifeShe’s losing her looks very fast,she loses her temper all day;that lorry won’t let me get past,this Mini is blocking my way.“Why can’t you step on it and shift her!I can’t go on crawling like this!At breakfast she said that she wished I was dead – Thank heavens we

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-78875864058867787772009-06-03T13:43:00.001+10:002009-06-03T13:43:36.743+10:00

We make ourselves a place apartBehind light words that tease and flout,But oh, the agitated heartTill someone find us really out.‘Tis pity if the case require(Or so we say) that in the endWe speak the literal to inspireThe understanding of a friend.But so with all, from babes that playAt hide-and-seek to God afar,So all who hide too well awayMust speak and tell us where they are.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-42054967979481763242009-06-03T13:37:00.000+10:002009-06-03T13:38:07.414+10:00

After great pain, a formal feeling comes –The Nerves sit ceremonious, like Tombs –The stiff Heart questions was it He, that bore,And Yesterday, or Centuries before?The Feet, mechanical, go round –Of Ground, or Air, or Ought –A Wooden wayRegardless grown,A Quartz contentment, like a stone –This is the Hour of Lead –Remembered, if outlived,As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow –First – Chill –

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-55405358042677453322009-06-02T13:09:00.002+10:002009-06-02T13:21:56.437+10:00

I learnt to write to you in happier days,    And every letter was a piece I chipped    From off my heart, a fragment newly clippedFrom the mosaic of life; its blues and grays,Its throbbing reds, I gave to earn your praise.    To make a pavement for your feet I stripped    My soul for you to walk upon, and slippedBeneath your steps to soften all your ways.    But now my letters are like blossoms

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-17638088267738777352009-06-02T13:01:00.002+10:002009-07-25T12:40:55.749+10:00

the room contains no soundexcept the ticking of the clockwhich has begun to paniclike an insect, trappedin an enormous box.Books lie open on the carpet.Somewhere elseyou’re sleepingand beside you there’s a womanwho is crying quietlyso you won’t wake.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-54187712992830277042009-06-02T12:59:00.000+10:002009-06-02T13:00:12.421+10:00

Long ago, I was wounded. I livedto revenge myselfagainst my father, notfor what he was – for what I was: from the beginning of time,in childhood, I thoughtthat pain meantI was not loved.It meant I loved.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-21480270848694767172009-06-02T12:51:00.003+10:002009-06-02T12:57:27.189+10:00

Why should I let the toad work    Squat on my life?Can’t I use my wit as a pitchforksix days of the week it soils    And drive the brute off?    With its sickening poison –Just for paying a few bills!    That’s out of proportion.Lots of folk live on their wits:    Lecturers, lispers,Losels, loblolly-men, louts –    They don’t end as paupers;Lots of folk live up lanes    With fires in a bucket,Eat

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-7570191629681635292009-06-01T14:03:00.001+10:002009-06-01T14:05:07.987+10:00

the sack of kittenssinking in the icy creekincreases the coldFrom ‘The Haiku Anthology 3rd Edition’, Cor Van Den Heuvel (ed),1999.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-39306375167336914162009-06-01T14:01:00.000+10:002009-06-01T14:02:14.304+10:00

It seemsThat barbed commentsBaited with some small jokeHook themselves well into the soulAnd rip.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-80118378983895107342009-05-30T12:28:00.000+10:002009-05-30T12:29:22.384+10:00

She tells her love while half asleep,In the dark hours,With half-words whispered low:As Earth stirs in her winter sleepAnd put out grass and flowersDespite the snow,Despite the falling snow.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-41000534152811114542009-05-30T12:27:00.001+10:002009-05-30T12:28:32.233+10:00

Last night waits in the kitchen.Skillet still on the stoveand pan tipped into the sink,blood drained to the bottom.A drawer pulled open,forks, spoons and knivespitched forward.Plates on the table,unscraped, unstacked.Chairs shoved back,garbage can toppled,grounds and rinds and bonesspill from its mouth.The back door stands open,the driveway is empty. From www.pith.com

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-80410688982279643012009-05-30T12:25:00.000+10:002009-05-30T12:26:21.074+10:00

Bloody men are like bloody buses –You wait for about a yearAnd as soon as one approaches your stopTwo or three others appear.You look at them flashing their indicators,Offering you a ride.You’re trying to read the destinations,You haven’t much time to decide.If you make a mistake, there is no turning back.Jump off, and you’ll stand there and gazeWhile the cars and the taxis and lorries go byAnd

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-47518296007428816992009-05-30T12:18:00.000+10:002009-05-30T12:24:26.609+10:00

Found a pink wet thinglike a prawn on my pillow this morningfelt it, smelt it, looked at it under the microscopeand I could see memories, rumours and dreamsscrawled in my handwriting over the surface.I keep my bit of brain in a jar, feed it marmalade, call it Fred.Frightening to think what might be missing –unexplained chunks of my life.(I can’t find the remote.) TonightI sleep, orifices

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-63456372333007079572009-05-28T12:06:00.002+10:002009-05-28T12:09:07.451+10:00

I was born committing suicide,holding my breath; they had to drag me kickingout of this damp garage, this airtight inside,the gases I struggled back tountil the doctors slapped me aliveand shouted: survive, survive.After Hiroshima, turning four,I battered my head at the master bedroom door;every night I dreamt I was a child burning at that town dumpAt the world’s edge, Japan;and every night my

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-51577145962191074072009-05-28T11:44:00.001+10:002009-05-28T11:46:06.992+10:00

In my country they jail you for what they think you think.My uncle once said to me:they’ll implant a microchipin our mindsto flash our thoughts and dreams on to a screen at John Vorster Square.I was scaredby day I guard my tongueby night my dreams.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-82174107469562588042009-05-28T11:41:00.000+10:002009-05-28T11:42:49.187+10:00

We make ourselves a place apartBehind light words that tease and flout,But oh, the agitated heartTill someone find us really out.‘Tis pity if the case require(Or so we say) that in the endWe speak the literal to inspireThe understanding of a friend.But so with all, from babes that playAt hide-and-seek to God afar,So all who hide too well awayMust speak and tell us where they are.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-89157363692157875452009-05-28T11:38:00.001+10:002009-05-28T11:40:27.276+10:00

Even rocks break, I tell you,and not from old age.For years they lie on their backs in the heat and the cold,so many yearsit almost seems peaceful.They don’t move from their place and so the cracks are hidden.A kind of pride.Year after year passes over them expectant, waiting.The one who will shatter them later has not yet come.And so the moss grows,the seaweeds are tossed about,the sea pounces

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-87818790285744392952009-05-28T11:35:00.001+10:002009-05-28T11:37:33.790+10:00

Lord Alfred Douglas: “Why do you do it Oscar? Why do you associate with such men? It must be like feasting with panthers”Oscar Wilde: “Precisely, dear boy!”They smile across the table, twitch their tailsYou wonder at how sleek they are, and slim.You touch the carver to your mortal thighAnd pass the salt and pepper pots to them.You take another draught of burgundyAnd do not feel the rasp of blade

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-77640158806084604332009-05-26T13:07:00.000+10:002009-05-26T13:08:25.171+10:00

I have been one acquainted with the night.I have walked out in rain – and back in rain.I have out-walked the furthest city light.I have looked down the saddest city lane.I have passed by the watchman on his beatAnd dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.I have stood still and stopped the sound of feetWhen far away an interrupted cryCame over houses from another street,But not to call me back or

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-63130005921068950542009-05-26T12:52:00.001+10:002009-05-26T12:52:25.913+10:00

Black thoughts I have had of younestling close to me with your sharp edgesand well I mightbeing a vinyl animalthat people in bathing costumesride through the chlorinated night.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-1729337964948869842009-05-26T12:45:00.002+10:002009-05-26T12:50:04.476+10:00

A white lily throws    open her dazzling petals        like stretched brolga’s wings.Headlights slit apart    tall thistles arguing in       the violent cold wind.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-18202263843831598142009-05-26T12:42:00.001+10:002009-05-26T12:43:15.259+10:00

[Translated by Hilda Schiff]and nobody shouts halt,and nobody fires,and yet this deathlysilence fills one’s earsand no one slaps your face,or whips your back, your eyes,and no one weeps,nor do the skies cry outeven though we have arrivedat this well known placewith its resonant name:Auschwitch.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-5250051488037380712009-05-26T12:39:00.001+10:002009-05-26T12:39:38.069+10:00

"I expect to pass through this life but once. If therefore, there can be any kindness I can show, or any thing I can do to a fellow human being, let me do it now."William Penn

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-74433272935670855002009-05-25T13:16:00.000+10:002009-05-25T13:17:41.554+10:00

Marriage is nota house or even a tent it is before that, and colder: The edge of the forest, the edgeof the desertthe unpainted stairsat the back where we squatoutside, eating popcorn where painfully and with wonderat having survived eventhis far we are learning to make fire

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-23398864476475024292009-05-25T13:11:00.001+10:002009-05-25T13:12:32.109+10:00

Forgive me for neglecting to show you that the world is evil.I had hoped your innocencewould find it goodand teach me what I know to be untrue.Forgive me for leaving you open to persistent heartbreakinstead of breaking your bright heart with medicinal blows.I had hoped your eyes would be starsdispelling darkness wherever you looked.Forgive me for a love that has delivered you unwarned to

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-70111126454395747632009-05-25T13:05:00.000+10:002009-05-25T13:08:37.879+10:00

I would liken youTo a night without starsWere it not for your eyes.I would liken youTo a sleep without dreamsWere it not for your songs.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-16570304799511457362009-05-22T14:02:00.000+10:002009-05-22T14:03:37.683+10:00

I’m really very fond of you,he said.I don’t like fond.It sounds like somethingyou would tell a dog.Give me love,or nothing.Throw your fond in a pond,I said.But what I felt for himwas also warm, frisky,moist-mouthed,eager,and could swim awayif forced to do so.From ‘101 Poems That Could Save Your Life’, D. Goodwin (ed), 2003.Originally from ‘Horses Make a Landscape Look More Beautiful’ by Alice

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-62658989492961381892009-05-22T13:57:00.001+10:002009-05-22T13:59:43.085+10:00

In his Russian greatcoatslamming open the doorwith an unpardonable bang,and he has been here ever since.He changes everything,rearranges the furniture,his hand hoversby the phone;he will answer now, he says;he will be the answer.Tonight he sits down to dinnerat the head of the tableas we eat, mute;later, he climbs into bedbetween us.Even as I sit here,he stands behind meclamping twocolossal hands

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-44813917619011405482009-05-21T13:19:00.001+10:002009-05-21T13:20:52.261+10:00

"His native home deep imaged in his soul."Homer, Trans. of Pope, ‘Odyssey, Bk. XIII’"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."Oscar Wilde, ‘Lady Windermere's Fan’, 1893"Misery is a communicable disease."Martha Graham"A loving person lives in a loving world. A hostile person lives in a hostile world; everyone you meet is your mirror."Ken Keyes, Jr.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-63934416419518862652009-05-21T13:15:00.001+10:002009-05-21T13:17:28.030+10:00

Go to sleep, Mum,I won’t stop breathingsuddenly, in the night.Go to sleep, I won’tclimb out of my cot andtumble downstairs.Mum, I won’t swallowthe pills the doctor gave you orput hairpins in electricsockets, just go to sleep.I won’t crywhen you take me to school and leave me:I’ll be happy with other childrenmy own age.Sleep, Mum, sleep.I won’tfall in the pond, play with matches,run under a lorry

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-13831085300351553792009-05-21T13:12:00.001+10:002009-05-21T13:14:35.437+10:00

God give me strength to lead a double life.Cut me in half.Make each half happy in its own waywith what is left. Let me disobeymy own best instinctsand do what I want to do, whatever that may be,without regretting it, or thinking I might.When I come home late at night from home,saying I have to go away,remind me to look out the windowto see which house I’m in.Pin a smile on my facewhen I turn up

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-14543463346718941132009-05-20T13:50:00.001+10:002009-05-20T13:51:54.577+10:00

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;      Petals on a wet, black bough.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-91182136933481527332009-05-20T13:44:00.002+10:002009-05-20T13:48:01.032+10:00

Wear dark glasses in the rain.Regard what was unhurtas though through a bruise.Guilt. A sick, green tint.New gloves, money tucked in the palms,the handshake crackles. Handscan do many things. Phone.Open the wine. Wash themselves. Nowyou are naked under your clothes all day,slim with deceit. Only the oncebrings you alone to your knees,miming, more, more, older and sadder,creative. Suck a lie with

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-36984215167647145442009-05-20T13:43:00.000+10:002009-05-20T13:44:03.535+10:00

Sticks and stones may beak my bonesbut words can also hurt me.Stones and sticks break only skin,while words are ghosts that haunt me.Slant and curved the word-swords fallto pierce and stick inside me.Bats and bricks may ache through bonesbut words can mortify me.Pain from words has left its scaron mind and heart that’s tenderCuts and bruises now have healedit’s words that I remember.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-48475659662245082622009-05-20T13:40:00.000+10:002009-05-20T13:42:05.739+10:00

Relationship: an erotic compromiseDog: where you put your heartDesert: a myth in reality’s clothesBooks: mirrors too small to holdFrame: that which is framed by something elseMeditation: opening the mouth withinMyth: that which did not transpireMusic: when a dream shakes its sleep off and speaksAir: that which connects usFingers: thin bodies waiting to be bornCowboy: the transcendental shepherd;

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-51937924553045102072009-05-15T14:20:00.000+10:002009-05-15T14:21:08.483+10:00

Hold fast to dreamsFor if dreams dieLife is a broken-winged birdThat cannot fly.Hold fast to dreamsFor when dreams goLife is a barren fieldFrozen with snow.From ‘Collected Poems’, Alfred A. Knopf (ed), 1994.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-26807689423858423542009-05-15T14:16:00.001+10:002009-05-15T14:19:15.071+10:00

Your absence has gone through me      Like thread through a needle.      Everything I do is stitched with its color.From ‘Migration: New & Selected Poems’ by W.S Merwin, 2005

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-89031340984200880512009-05-15T13:08:00.002+10:002009-05-15T13:11:25.706+10:00

When you’ve got the plan of your lifematched to the time it will takebut you just want to press SHIFT / BREAKand print over and overthis is not what I was afterthis is not what I was after.When you’ve finally stripped out the housewith its iron-cold fireplace,its mouldings, its mortgage,its single-skin wallsbut you want to write in the plaster“This is not what I was after.”When you’ve got the

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-91987884044561848892009-05-15T13:06:00.000+10:002009-05-15T13:07:39.410+10:00

Death stands above me, whispering lowI know not what into my ear:Of his strange language all I knowIs, there is not a word of fear.

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-90039336014317732112009-05-15T13:01:00.002+10:002009-05-15T13:06:17.377+10:00

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.There is no happiness like mine.I have been eating poetry.The librarian does not believe what she sees.Her eyes are sadand she walks with her hands in her dress.The poems are gone.The light is dim.The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.Their eyeballs roll,their blond legs burn like brush.The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.She does

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-53976314507459066362009-05-14T13:32:00.003+10:002009-05-15T13:16:33.380+10:00

By the time you swear you're his,Shivering and sighing,And he vows his passion isInfinite, undying -Lady, make a note of this:One of you is lying.From 'Enough Rope', 1926. Copyright Dorothy Parker

traveleishhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00533213405167565111noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4303598790030894811.post-67491895268082116252009-05-14T13:27:00.007+10:002009-05-15T13:06:41.113+10:00

When I go away from youThe world beats deadLike a slackened drum.I call out for you against the jutted starsAnd shout into the ridges of the wind.Streets coming fast,one after the other,Wedge you away from me,And the lamps of the city prick my eyesSo that I can no longer see your face.Why should I leave you,To wound myself upon the sharp edges of the night?From 'Sword Blades and Poppy Seeds',

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