I love words.
So tired. Wasting my time online, reading Post Secret as I do every late Saturday night, and now perusing the Verse Daily recent archives because I haven't kept up in months. A few things have been striking me. Maybe I'll sit up and try to write for awhile. But here's this, by Mary Ruefle:
Why I Am Not a Good Kisser
Because I open my mouth too wide
Trying to take in the curtains behind us
And everything outside the window
Except the little black dog
Who does not like me
So at the last moment I shut my mouth.
Because Cipriano de Rore was not thinking
When he wrote his sacred and secular motets
Or there would be only one kind
And this affects my lips in terrible ways.
Because at the last minute I see a lemon
Sitting on a gravestone and that is a thing, a thing
That would appear impossible, and the kiss
Is already concluded in its entirety.
Because I learned everything about the beautiful
In a guide to the weather by Borin Van Loon, so
The nature of lenticular clouds and anticyclones
And several other things dovetail in my mind
& at once it strikes me what quality goes to form
A Good Kisser, especially at this moment, & which you
Possess so enormously-I mean when a man is capable
Of being in uncertainties, Mysteries & doubts without me
I am dreadfully afraid he will slip away
While my kiss is trying to think what to do.
Because I think you will try to read what is written
On my tongue and this causes me to interrupt with questions:
A red frock? Red stockings? And the rooster dead?
Dead of what?
Because of that other woman inside me who knows
How the red skirt and red stockings came into my mouth
But persists with the annoying questions
Leading to her genuine ignorance.
Because just when our teeth are ready to hide
I become a quisling and forget the election results
And industrial secrets leading to the manufacture
Of woolen ice cream cones, changing the futures
Of ice worms everywhere.
Can it be that even the greatest Kisser ever arrived
At his goal without putting aside numerous objections-
Because every kiss is like throwing a pair of doll eyes
Into the air and trying to follow them with your own-
However it may be, O for a life of Kisses
Instead of painting volcanoes!
Even if my kiss is like a paintbrush made from hairs.
Even if my kiss is squawroot, which is a scaly herb
Of the broomrape family parasitic on oaks.
Even if a sailor went to sea in me
To see what he could see in me
And all that he could see in me
Was the bottom of the deep dark sea in me.
Even though I know nothing can be gained by running
Screaming into the night, into the night like a mouth,
Into the mouth like a velvet movie theater
With planets painted on its ceiling
Where you will find me, your pod mate,
In some kind of beautiful trouble
Over moccasin stitch #3,
Which is required for my release.
*
And this, by Ellen Dore Watson:
Flood, According to Her
You are like a leaky row boat pretending
to be a raincoat. I am straight-forward:
self-confessedly undependable because
my right arm overrules my left, just like
my brain. Life within a fortress within
a life in an arc of motion, oh Russian doll.
How to be the years we have? I'm thinking
of love. I'm planning to make up the truth:
this end-stage sunset, that baby landscape.
I'm thinking of laying down slabs of stone
across the lawn, big feet of heaven, whole
kingdoms. Feng Shui my way: a cadre
of rubber alligators protect my door.
It's not as though we can pick up every
shell on the beach, but there's often
something nesting in the nest of the bird
in the hand. One day I just stepped out
of the boat. Relief like a flood I tell you.
*
And this, by Jean Valentine:
If a Person Visits Someone in a Dream, in Some Cultures the Dreamer Thanks Them
in memory of Reginald Shepherd
Dear Reginald,
It is morning.
I sit at a table
writing a letter
with a needle and thread.
*
I pricked my finger A pelican
out of her migratory path,
even her language family-
whose child is gone
yet she absently pecks at her breast.
*
I write on the bedspread
I am making for you there
May you breathe deeply and easily.
If a person visits someone in a dream,
in some cultures the dreamer thanks them in the morning
for visiting their dream.
*
I call it dream
not that I am drawn to that which withdraws
but to him pearled, asleep, who never withdraws.
*
At a hotel in another star. The rooms were cold and
damp, we were both at the desk at midnight asking if
they had any heaters. They had one heater. You are
ill, please you take it. Thank you for visiting my dream.
*
Can you breathe all right?
Break the glass shout
break the glass force the room
break the thread Open
the music behind the glass.
*
Remember that blue vine? Grown
alongside the gate
fourteenth century
Venus close as the moon
the bowl of the skull turning here
lifting that
Why I Am Not a Good Kisser
Because I open my mouth too wide
Trying to take in the curtains behind us
And everything outside the window
Except the little black dog
Who does not like me
So at the last moment I shut my mouth.
Because Cipriano de Rore was not thinking
When he wrote his sacred and secular motets
Or there would be only one kind
And this affects my lips in terrible ways.
Because at the last minute I see a lemon
Sitting on a gravestone and that is a thing, a thing
That would appear impossible, and the kiss
Is already concluded in its entirety.
Because I learned everything about the beautiful
In a guide to the weather by Borin Van Loon, so
The nature of lenticular clouds and anticyclones
And several other things dovetail in my mind
& at once it strikes me what quality goes to form
A Good Kisser, especially at this moment, & which you
Possess so enormously-I mean when a man is capable
Of being in uncertainties, Mysteries & doubts without me
I am dreadfully afraid he will slip away
While my kiss is trying to think what to do.
Because I think you will try to read what is written
On my tongue and this causes me to interrupt with questions:
A red frock? Red stockings? And the rooster dead?
Dead of what?
Because of that other woman inside me who knows
How the red skirt and red stockings came into my mouth
But persists with the annoying questions
Leading to her genuine ignorance.
Because just when our teeth are ready to hide
I become a quisling and forget the election results
And industrial secrets leading to the manufacture
Of woolen ice cream cones, changing the futures
Of ice worms everywhere.
Can it be that even the greatest Kisser ever arrived
At his goal without putting aside numerous objections-
Because every kiss is like throwing a pair of doll eyes
Into the air and trying to follow them with your own-
However it may be, O for a life of Kisses
Instead of painting volcanoes!
Even if my kiss is like a paintbrush made from hairs.
Even if my kiss is squawroot, which is a scaly herb
Of the broomrape family parasitic on oaks.
Even if a sailor went to sea in me
To see what he could see in me
And all that he could see in me
Was the bottom of the deep dark sea in me.
Even though I know nothing can be gained by running
Screaming into the night, into the night like a mouth,
Into the mouth like a velvet movie theater
With planets painted on its ceiling
Where you will find me, your pod mate,
In some kind of beautiful trouble
Over moccasin stitch #3,
Which is required for my release.
*
And this, by Ellen Dore Watson:
Flood, According to Her
You are like a leaky row boat pretending
to be a raincoat. I am straight-forward:
self-confessedly undependable because
my right arm overrules my left, just like
my brain. Life within a fortress within
a life in an arc of motion, oh Russian doll.
How to be the years we have? I'm thinking
of love. I'm planning to make up the truth:
this end-stage sunset, that baby landscape.
I'm thinking of laying down slabs of stone
across the lawn, big feet of heaven, whole
kingdoms. Feng Shui my way: a cadre
of rubber alligators protect my door.
It's not as though we can pick up every
shell on the beach, but there's often
something nesting in the nest of the bird
in the hand. One day I just stepped out
of the boat. Relief like a flood I tell you.
*
And this, by Jean Valentine:
If a Person Visits Someone in a Dream, in Some Cultures the Dreamer Thanks Them
in memory of Reginald Shepherd
Dear Reginald,
It is morning.
I sit at a table
writing a letter
with a needle and thread.
*
I pricked my finger A pelican
out of her migratory path,
even her language family-
whose child is gone
yet she absently pecks at her breast.
*
I write on the bedspread
I am making for you there
May you breathe deeply and easily.
If a person visits someone in a dream,
in some cultures the dreamer thanks them in the morning
for visiting their dream.
*
I call it dream
not that I am drawn to that which withdraws
but to him pearled, asleep, who never withdraws.
*
At a hotel in another star. The rooms were cold and
damp, we were both at the desk at midnight asking if
they had any heaters. They had one heater. You are
ill, please you take it. Thank you for visiting my dream.
*
Can you breathe all right?
Break the glass shout
break the glass force the room
break the thread Open
the music behind the glass.
*
Remember that blue vine? Grown
alongside the gate
fourteenth century
Venus close as the moon
the bowl of the skull turning here
lifting that