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Best Famous Judith Skillman Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Judith Skillman poems. This is a select list of the best famous Judith Skillman poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Judith Skillman poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Judith Skillman poems.

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Written by Judith Skillman | |

La nuit souvre lorage

 Poem by Anne-Marie Derése

La nuit s'ouvre, l'orage,
accouplement mauve,
boursouflure.
Le ciel chargè comme un bateau marchand jette l'ancre.
Le danger plus lourd chaque instant distille une moiteur de serre.
Miroitante de mercure, la vallèe des sept Meuses souffle la brume par ses narines grises.
La vallèe a rejoint la nuit, deux femelles humides que l'orage pènétre.
Et moi, debout, dans le vent anxieux, j'espére la dèchirure.


Written by Judith Skillman | |

Night Opens to the Storm

 Poem by Anne-Marie Derése, translated by Judith Skillman.
Night opens to the storm, a mauve coupling, swollen.
The sky, laden like a merchant ship, throws off its anchor.
Danger, heavier each instant, exudes the mugginess of a greenhouse.
Shimmering like mercury The Valley of the Seven Muses breathes mist through its gray nostrils.
The valley of has rejoined the night, two humid females the storm penetrates.
And I, standing here in the anxious wind, I wait for the tearing apart.


Written by Judith Skillman | |

Pardon

 Poem by Anne-Marie Derése.
Pardon si j'ai ri dans vos chapelles, pardon si j'ai claquè la porte de l'h?pital, pardon pour le bruit, pour la vie, pour l'amour auquel je n'avais pas droit.
Pardon de ne pas vous ressembler.


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Written by Judith Skillman | |

Forgive Me

 Poem by Anne-Marie Derése, translated by Judith Skillman.
Forgive me if I have laughed in your chapels, forgive me if I have slammed the hospital door, forgive me for the noise, for life, for the love to which I have no right.
Forgive me for not resembling you.


Written by Judith Skillman | |

Tu mas donnè une arme

 Poem by Anne-Marie Derése.
Tu m'as donnè une arme Dans le troupeau humain, tu as lancè tes mots commes des pierres.
Les blessures furent bonnes lècher.
Tu as rèveillè le feulement.
Tu t'es donnè comme on prend.


Written by Judith Skillman | |

Youve given me a weapon

 Poem by Anne-Marie Derése, translated by Judith Skillman.
You've given me a weapon.
you've flung your words into the human herd like stones.
The wounds were good to lick.
You have woken the tiger.
You've given as one takes.


Written by Judith Skillman | |

La dètresse senroule

 Poem by Anne-Marie Derése.
Le volcan en attente au fond de nous ronge, creuse, tremble, soupése ses chances.
La dètresse s'enroule, se tasse comme une b?te malade.
Nous sommes mèconnaissables, uniques, avec la certitude de notre fèrocitè.


Written by Judith Skillman | |

Distress Coils

 Poem by Anne-Marie Derése, translated by Judith Skillman.
The waiting volcano inside us gnaws, digs, trembles, weighs its chances.
Distress coils up, shrinks silent like a sick beast.
We are unrecognizable, unique in the certainty of our ferocity.


Written by Judith Skillman | |

Je Suis

 Poem by Anne-Marie Derése

Je suis le fer rouge
sur l'èpaule du condamnè,
le gibet et la corde,
la hache et le billot,
le fouet et la croix.
Je suis la dent du lion dans la chair de la gazelle.
J'ai dans mes veines le sang de nègriers.
Bourreau, j'ai mèritè la faim des loups.
Les victimes ne m'ont laissè que leur mort.


Written by Judith Skillman | |

Tic Douloureux

 The trigger is sensation.
The violin's a dirty animal.
I want you to take away the suddenness.
Pain up the side of my head.
I'll have my teeth extracted one by one.
See if it makes any difference.
Rehearse for the real.
Be either present or absent.
I'll let my fingers drum ebony.
Thinking makes it worse.
I'll take the beat inside myself and feel it up the center of my body.
A string through my head.
Imagine a hand pierced through the center by a wire.
I won't refer to Jesus or the crucifixion.
No blood in this exercise.
Let the hand move freely up and down this wire.
I'll wipe my nose when the bow comes toward my face.
My head itches during the Vitali.
Lightning finds a way to enter the earth.
It's a pity music rises and falls.
Hide these bolts in a rock.
Insects carve sand trails as they enter the crab's eyes.
The thing of death is the animal knows when it's happening.
Leave a relic.
Any kind of pain.


Written by Judith Skillman | |

The Vagaries of Fishes

 After they passed beneath us I could tell
more would be coming, beneath the sand,
under the bejeweled sky, under the first
layer of earth where water exists 
in flutes and eddies.
I lay there with you, not wanting to leave your side even for them, the miraculous creatures of sex and sediment, the ones who obey currents and ladders, blindly seeking out their own individual deaths, their pink flesh peeling against the rocks.
I saw the spool of eggs, endless possibilities that would not be.
How they labored to breathe the air that night, caught under our queen-sized bed, the male and the female, Silvers and Kings whose pale eyes saw into the lidless dark.
I could tell they loved each other without speech, circling there apart from water, and I remembered a snippet from a French film in which a woman masturbates with a fish, and thought how progressive I had become in retrospect.
There we were, left behind by the tides, deserted by the institution of wind on a night so soundless it could have been our first night together, before we became victims of those slippery, dirty, messy words.


Written by Judith Skillman | |

Field Thistle

 Herb and spine,
the flat-fisted dream
of stars and dew
formed when he walked
with his telescope
through grasses spotted
by the spit bug.
A raucous noise, the dawn of great beauty and he with his tripod matting the grasses as he walked.
I never saw him dead on a bed of white down.
Never heard past the death rattle, and so, for me, he lives there in the ragged, noxious weeds that make up North America.
He with his freely creeping root system, milk-juiced, the most persistent of all my fathers on arable lands.


Written by Judith Skillman | |

Bourne

 When the Cherry
rustles above her head
she hardly realizes
why she leaves
her clothes on the rocks,

passes a hand absently
through water
as if smoothing
an infant’s forehead.
Instead she takes the fruit pressed into her hand and watches the bloody stone wet her fingers.
Wasn’t sweetness always a symbol for their falling.
She walks with the man along the river bank until they come to know the sore places in the soles of their feet, the fish knifing away.
Under the currents every death moves in time towards them, each cliché is soothed into language as if there were no way to limit Paradise, other than this that has already happened.


Written by Judith Skillman | |

Visage volè loiseau

 Poem by Anne-Marie Derése

Je ne sais qui tu caches
sous ton visage inventè,
ton visage volè l'oiseau,
emprisonnè de cendre rouge.
Je vais t'aimer comme on meurt.
Je vais te garder pour les annèes venir.
Tu seras si apprivoisè, si incroyable, mon ètrange animal, avec tes lévres ouverte sur un sourire perdu.
Je boirai ton haleine et je saurai qui tu caches.


Written by Judith Skillman | |

Face Stolen From a Bird

 Poem by Anne-Marie Derése, translated by Judith Skillman.
I don't know who you're hiding behind your mask, your face stolen from a bird, imprisoned by red ashes.
I will love you the way one dies.
I will keep you for years to come, you will be so tame, so unbelievable, my strange animal, with your lips opening on a lost smile.
I'll drink your breath and I'll know who you are hiding.