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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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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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.