Posts Tagged 'found poem'

With stars *

Words are for those with promises to keep.

I have no promises. Shut the door, the stars
are not wanted just now, put out every one.

Everyone hates the bird with one wing. The bird
with one wing can’t fly, but man can she sing.

The sings she sings make me shell not stone,
I have no promises, make me blue and fragile,

I have no words. She is a spectacle, the angel
on top of the weeding cake. I have no promises,

I splatter my words, incoherent shards
that make a light nimbus against the wet

pavement on a night almost like this,
but with stars. With stars.


(found poem: take lines from existing poetry, recombine, make something new, voila! This is taken from Gertrude Stein, WH Auden, and Paula Gunn Allen, and was written in 15 minutes. It’s easy to go wild when Gertrude is there.)


I watch the trout that spins in water clear and fast, green
pebbles, leaf shadows, me as dragonfly, a dance
that hovers and rushes in weedy water. Push, my heart, push

through darkness, darkness that is warm and smells of half-
opened lilies. If I could change one physical thing
about myself, it would be this:

The wings of moths that catch the sunlight,
the perfect fear that pinches my soul,
the elegant fans of scallops.

Perhaps we could start by speaking softly.
Comienza, mi amor. Begin by holding one movimiento
puro, the movement of one soul that lightens the night.

I got lost in that night, yo me perdi de esa noche.
Banal as doorknobs, I have dabbled in madness.
Chiaroscuro. Green pebbles, leaf shadows, clear water.

Found pillow

In marble halls as white as milk,
lined with a skin as soft as silk,
An image of women, an image of men,
Dented and battered, scarred and thin.

Within, without, with hearts and rain,
With cabbages, kings, with kites without strings.
Their eyes were watching, were watching god,
in bare rooms, empty, were watching god,
With shadowed eyes, bare mattresses, odd,
shortened breath, shortened life, watching god,
watching god.

We suspect them of having mean hearts, she said.
She looked through the windows, she looked in their heads.
We suspect them of breathing, we suspect them of crime,
The crime of not sleeping, of eating dry bread
of drawing breath, of drawing
a bridge, of drawing a card to carry the dead.

This book is harmless, written and sad.
These people have gone where nothing is said.
This loss is a pillow, grieved and wet. 
This loss is a pillow, beaten, set,
Thrown on the floor, wrinkled and sad.

This loss is a pillow, grieved and wet, buried
In walls, breathing out, breathing in,
in a marble hall, as white as milk,
Lined with a skin, as soft as silk.






(found poem, writing group, 15 minutes, untouched)

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May 2020