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[iamwearingpants]

Give me a poem. Give me your favorite poem. Give me a poem that opens you up and turns you inside out, then back again. Give me a poem filled with color and light. Give me the poem you hate the most, if it's full of life and you hate it for being too real. Give me two poems. Give me twelve, or forty. Or just one. Please?

Comments

[drabheathen]

Funeral Blues

[rara_aviz]

Romance Somnambulo - Federico Garcia Lorca

I wrote you one a while back. It was okay.

[iamwearingpants]

You wrote one? The Mercedes one, or one I haven't read? And if the latter, why haven't I read it?

[rara_aviz]

The Mercedes one. But it was only okay.

[divine_aphasia]

l(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness

-e.e. cummings

[grumblecakes]

Wow. I've never read that one before. Consider me blown away.

[ruta_skadi]

Tonight, as I lay in bed thinking
an hours drive away, through a window
into one quiet heart underneath a beating chest,
I wrap my arms around a pantomime,
feeling every single curve of a body
the way my bones feel spring or snow...
the extremities I know
by the back of my hand
that is resting against the small of a back,
like my mind attacks Thoreau just to rest
in his transcendental concave.
And when wisps of scent and lips pressed
seem to trail fewer and fewer seconds away from me,
I begin to relish my memories.

Though a life that would feel more than spring
means dreaming to just an inch away,
an hour drive in that dream
flies far enough from distance
that I never really even notice the rain
-- by A.T. (from idontliveinwichita.com)

And "Variations on the Word Love" by Margaret Atwood, which is posted here.

And "The Color of Scarves" by Beau Sia, which is posted here.

A great LJ community for poetry is theysaid. Check it out-- their memories section is really good.

[cleversimon]

I <3 Beau Sia.

[divine_aphasia]

and also,

First Poem for You - Kim Addonizio

I love to touch your tattoos in complete
darkness, when I can't see them. I'm sure of
where they are, know by heart the neat
lines of lightning pulsing just above
your nipple, can find, as if by instinct, the blue
swirls of water on your shoulder where a serpent
twists, facing a dragon. When I pull you
to me, taking you until we're spent
and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss
the pictures in your skin. They'll last until
you're seared to ashes; whatever persists
or turns to pain between us, they will still
be there. Such permanence is terrifying.
So I touch them in the dark; but touch them, trying.