Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’


July 23, 2016

I started writing poems when I was around seven and I still think they are quite good. I want to post them all here when I find them in my parents’ house in December. Sorry readers! And here’s a later bunch.



I’ll hurt you.

But being with me?

Being with you.

Well, I’ll hurt you, too.

But in between the hurting,

Baby, it’s paradise.

It’s heaven and hell

Break loose

At the same time.




My lord, why are you so out of measure sad?

What’s thy pleasure?

Do you love me, master? No?

Well, in that case

Let your indulgence set me free.



You’re so soft

With a softness I have never experienced before,

Never dreamed of before,

A softness of something, an object,

And yet of flesh,

And yet of me.


How strange to be able to reach so deep,

Explore oneself in the true sense of the word,

Explore oneslef without cruelty, without vomit, without blood.


It’s always there.


It’s always been there.


So soft.




You’re made of thin ice and slivers of glass, pointed upwards,

And, in between, wide plains of lush grass, green,

So green, so warm, so welcoming

One only wants to lie down

And rest

And dream

And get stolen by a wave

Of green grass,

Basking in the sun,

Until the hand reaches the brim of the warmth

And one shivers

And one cries.



The smile,

The eyes,

The mystery.

Hundreds of hours spent talking with a spectre,

Hundreds of hours of new, overwhelming joy

That might not be found.

Smelling the brow,

Gently brushing against the cheek, the nose

To reach just the very tip

Of the moist line

Of your lips


In a rush

Taste your tongue.




I guess I’m a very religious person,

It’s just

I don’t happen to love Jesus.


I’m melting! Scoop me up!


Let’s go with the flow – but you’re the captain.


Whatever happens to us,

Adrienne Rich will haunt me.




I want you to tell me stories about planes and wars,

I want you to cook one of those meticulously prepared dishes of yours,

I want you to smile

so wide

that there

will be a fine


on your right cheek

running down from the eye,

I want you to send me

emails long enough to show how good at writing

you are,

I want you to send me

songs that you composed and ask

what I think of them…

What I think of you?

I want you.


Charles Reznikoff

January 23, 2009

This smoky winter morning
do not despise the green jewel among the twigs
because it is a traffic light.

The house-wreckers have left the door and a staircase,
now leading to the empty room of night.

What are you doing in our street among the automobiles, horse?
How are your cousins, the centaur and the unicorn?

Among the heaps of brick and plaster lie a girder,
still itself among the rubbish.