Category: Poetry & music

Another week has slipped by without any posts. I miss this place. I have so many posts I want to write for you (for me, too). Soon… the end is in sight :)

For now, a poem sent to me by my (amazing) therapist. I am so working with the right woman.

My body is a wide house
a commune
of bickering women, hearing
their own breathing
denying each other.
Nearer the door
ready in black leather
is Vulnerable.  She lives in the hall
her face painted with care
her black boots reaching her crotch
her black hair shining
her skin milky and soft as butter.
If you should ring the doorbell
she would answer
and a wound would open across her eyes
as she touched your hand.
On the stairs, glossy and determined
is Mindful.  She’s the boss, handing out
punishments and rations and examination
papers with precise
justice.  She keeps her perceptions in a huge
album under her arm
her debts in the garden with the weedkill
friends in a card-index
on the windowsill of the sittingroom
and a tape-recording of the world
on earphones
which she plays to herself over and over
assessing her life
writing summaries.
In the kitchen is Commendable
The only lady in the house who
dresses in florals
she is always busy, always doing something
for someone she has
a lot of friends.  Her hands are quick and
cunning as blackbirds
her pantry is stuffed with loaves and fishes
she knows the times of trains and
mends fuses and makes
a lot of noise with the vacuum cleaner.
In her linen cupboard, new-ironed and neatly
folded, she keeps her resentments like
wedding presents – each week
takes them out for counting not to
lose any but would never think of
using any being a lady.
Upstairs in a white room
is my favourite.  She is Equivocal
has no flesh on her bones
that are changeable as yarrow stalks.
She hears her green plants talking
watches the bad dreams under the world
spends all her days and nights
arranging her symbols
never sleeps
never eats hamburgers
never lets anyone into her room
never asks for anything.
In the basement is Harmful
She is the keeper of weapons
the watchdog.  Keeps intruders at bay
but the others keep her
locked up in the daytime and when she escapes
she comes out screaming
smoke streaming from her nostrils
flames on her tongue
razor-blades for fingernails
skewers for eyes.
I am Imminent
live out in the street
watching them.  I lodge myself in other people’s
heads with a sleeping bag
strapped to my back.
One day I’ll perhaps get to like them enough
those rough, truthful women
to move in.  One by one
I’m making friends with them all
unobtrusively, slow and steady
slow and steady.

by Jeni Couzyn  1978
From Life by Drowning:  selected poems

Merry & bright. from Photobird on 8tracks Radio.

Wherever you are, whoever you’re with and whatever you’re doing, I really hope you’re having a lovely day. There can be so much expectation flying around at this time of the year, so I hope you’re able to navigate it all in ways that feel good to your heart. We’re here with a poorly little boy, so it’s a quiet day for us but that doesn’t make it any less sweeter. Sending you lots of love from my little corner of the world xo

Haven’t been on the internet so much this week (which is a good thing) but the music never stops playing

Very funny… 28 Days Late made me cry with laughter (via Jo)

How Shakespeare changed everything

On a clear day you can see forever (via Hannah)

Bit obsessed with Ze Frank at the moment

Ditto dating blogs: one | two | three

There’s going to be a supermoon tonight

Things I’m afraid to tell you — lots of bloggers telling the truth = LOVE!

What would your bigness do?

Slowly unravel. from Photobird on 8tracks.

For Desire

Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks best;
and I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal
surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries,
or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing.
Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I’m drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with the martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I’m nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it. I want to go
staggering and flailing my way
through the bars and back rooms,
through the gleaming hotels and weedy
lots of abandoned sunflowers and the parks
where dogs are let off their leashes
in spite of the signs, where they sniff each
other and roll together in the grass, I want to
lie down somewhere and suffer for love until
it nearly kills me, and then I want to get up again
and put on that little black dress and wait
for you, yes you, to come over here
and get down on your knees and tell me
just how fucking good I look.

~ Kim Addonizio

Shamelessly used without permission, but it had to be shared today. The sun came out and music played loud and I turned a page in my journal and found it again. One of my most favourite poems. And there are many.

Click here to listen to Addonizio reading her poem, What Do Women Want?

Go buy her books.

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