Showing posts with label desire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label desire. Show all posts

Sunday, October 14, 2007

117. DESIRE

From the Archives (June 2005)

DESIRE
by Stephen Dunn

I remember how it used to be
at noon, springtime, the city streets
full of office workers like myself
let loose from the cold
glass buildings on Park and Lex,
the dull swaddling of winter cast off,
almost everyone wanting
everyone else. It was amazing
how most of us contained ourselves,
bringing desire back up
to the office where it existed anyway,
quiet, like a good engine.
I'd linger a bit
with the receptionist,
knock on someone else's open door,
ease myself, by increments,
into the seriousness they paid me for.
Desire was everywhere those years,
so enormous it couldn't be reduced
one person at a time.
I don't remember when it was,
though closer to now than then,
I walked the streets desireless,
my eyes fixed on destination alone.
The beautiful person across from me
on the bus or train
looked like effort, work.
I translated her into pain.
For months I had the clarity
the cynical survive with,
their world so safely small.
Today, walking 57th toward 3rd,
it's all come back,
the interesting, the various,
the conjured life suggested by a glance.
I praise how the body heals itself.
I praise how, finally, it never learns.

Also from today’s Writer’s Digest:
It was on this day in 1997, the Pentagon tried to end the speculation that the United States had intercepted a wrecked alien spacecraft along with alien bodies 50 years ago in Roswell, New Mexico.

There had been a lot of reports of UFOs during the summer of 1947, and during this flying saucer craze, a man in Roswell found debris on his ranch from something that had crashed—and the Air Force came to clean it up.

Newspapers around the world picked up the story. The government later said the object found had been a weather balloon, but UFO enthusiasts thought it was an alien invasion, and the government was trying to cover it up. At a press briefing in 1997, the Pentagon said the bodies found in Roswell had been test dummies and not aliens. Many enthusiasts still believe that that press briefing, too, was part of the cover-up.

Friday, September 21, 2007

21. SEXY POND POEM

From the Archives

(March 2005) Here’s another poem—a nice, sexy springtime poem, also by Mary Oliver, to celebrate the fact that the sun has come out.

BLOSSOM
by Mary Oliver

In April
the ponds
open
like black blossoms,
the moon
swims in every one;
there’s fire
everywhere: frogs shouting
their desire,
their satisfaction. What
we know: that time
chops at us all like an iron
hoe, that death
is a state of paralysis. What
we long for: joy
before death, nights
in the swale—everything else
can wait but not
this thrust
from the root
of the body. What
we know: we are more
than blood—we are more
than our hunger and yet
we belong
to the moon and when the ponds
open, when the burning
begins the most
thoughtful among us dreams
of hurrying down
into the black petals,
into the fire,
into the night where time lies shattered,
into the body of another.


Please note that those lines are set flush left because I don’t know the HTML code for random poetry indents. Mary indents them though.

READING: Anne Waldman and Lisa Birman’s Civil Disobediences: Poetics and the Politics of Action

LISTENING TO: "Barricades and Brick Walls” by Kasey Chambers (Barricades and brick walls can’t keep me from you. You can tie me down to a railroad track, you can let that freight trail roll....)

SINGING IN SHOWER: “Tainted Love”—and yes, as a matter of fact, I was dancing in there!

13. WHAT HASN'T HAPPENED YET

From the Archives (March 2005)

SONG FOR SANNA
by Olga Broumas

...in this way the future enters
into us, in order to transform itself
in us before it happens.
—Rilke


What hasn’t happened
intrudes, so much
hasn’t yet happened. In the steamy
kitchens we meet in, kettles
are always boiling, water for tea, the steep
infusions we occupy
hands and mouth with, steam
filming our breath, a convenient

subterfuge, a disguise
for the now
sharp intake, the measured
outlet of air, the sigh, the gutting
loneliness

of the present where
what hasn’t happened will
not be ignored, intrudes, separates
from the conversation like milk
from cream, desire

rising between the cups, brimming
over our saucers, clouding the minty
air, its own
aroma a pungent
stress, once again, you will get
up, put on your coat, go

home to the safer passions, moisture
clinging still to your spoon, as the afternoon
wears on, and I miss, I
miss you.