The ghosts of a thousand Celts
haunt where you lie, heavy as time,
dream-quiet in ochre and grey.
Warm as an October moon,
soft in a pink-cheeked dawn,
you wake to honey and cream
under my hand, butter melting
into a strawberry kiss,
just so.
and beauty just happens
if you will wait
long enough -
the sound of plants
breathing under the snow,
of red petals
and green leaves
bursting on the vine
and climbing up over the roof,
the sight of rain
washing the hillside -
a mosaic
on the window
and the scent
that buries the laundry,
fresh picked
from the line
on a june morning
and how it feels
on your skin
when you first wake up
lazy with the last dream
and how she tastes -
she tastes
supple and fragile,
something blooming
just for you.
She was once a verse by Baudelaire
something about flowers
that were loyal to none
and I kissed her
when no one was watching.
She was a stanza by Byron
who stood on
the white cliffs of somewhere
and praised her eyebrows.
She is nothing like summer
or a lost continent;
her landscape
is too bold for that.
Her shoulders are not
a country
or a battle to be won.
I thought she was a poem -
Cynara,
or maybe an ode
or sonnet -
words teased and woven
that beat and bled
upon my humble pen,
not the flesh and blood
of thighs and hips
ripening beneath my gaze,
waiting to be written.
If I woke on judgment day,
head splitting, sparrow for a heart,
I'd expect would-be angels
to stop their senseless singing.
I might cease to wonder
what more I could have done
to corrupt an idle patrimony,
infamous with unseen winter,
but I'd warm its runes
in the campfires set
by an enemy in your voice.
The role of the observer by EmmaSloane, literature
Literature
The role of the observer
Your hand, under the table,
halfway up my skirt,
feels cold, but no matter.
I've already read it, that hand,
when you lifted it to touch my face.
I needed only a glimpse.
Like lightning. Quick, jagged.
Others, seers, cloak it in mystery,
the tracings of intersected flesh.
They turn over card after card, waiting,
grave in the presence of a moment
that has not yet arrived,
but I come from a long line of women
who wear the future like light,
awaiting nothing.
My problem is a headache
No, not a headache; an explosion inside my brain
A wailing, a crying, a lost soul's screams of despair
A jackhammer serenade, a machine gun sonata
Black canvases painted in a frenzy by a madwoman
Darkness at noon, dreams flying by in fast-forward
Crippled children trying to run from a sharp-toothed monster
Confusion of languages, religions, philosophies, all idiot blather
Chainsaw grinding of bone, packs of mad dogs yowling and howling
You see, don't you?
My problem is a headache
Quickly, before they fade,
abandoning their ship of pages
Gather the words together and
mix them with seeds of spice
Preserve their fragrance in
windswept fields waving
Hands and fingers dangling
Grazing the buds of verse
I dreamt of a woman
My woman is not Ash Wednesday
Nor is she Good Friday
Nor the Sunday of Doubting Thomas
My woman is always Thursday.
That is to say inconceivable.
Her neck is a racetrack
Furrowed by hooves
A vibrating field.
She holds a small watch
Between her teeth
And when we kiss I worry
I might swallow it
Then she will always know my rhythm.
My woman is not a tree
She is a stone
When I crunch her my teeth shatter.
She suffers too because it's impossible for me
To change her shape
I can only change her space
So I throw her away
And then I run like a dog sucking in the distance
To get her back.
KATERINA ILIOPOULOU
I suppose that's the word.
But we can't bury it.
The centuries are too much with us,
and somehow not enough.
The body convulses yet, in the agonies
of a slow and painful demise;
what tanks and swastikas could not accomplish
has been meted out with the stroke of a pen.
"Democracy will be imposed," they say.
I have no words for that.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2012/feb/12/euro-crisis-stake-greece-identity-europe