Written by
Sylvia Plath |
I am a miner.
The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears
The earthen womb
Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs
Wrap me, raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.
Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,
Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish----
Christ! They are panes of ice,
A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking
Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,
Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo
Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
The blood blooms clean
In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.
Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses.
With soft rugs----
The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,
Let the mercuric
Atoms that cripple drip
Into the terrible well,
You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.
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Written by
Rg Gregory |
you have gone away from yourself
you walk in a dead way
your loins have lost their sweets
your breasts deny touch
your face exudes cold pain
everything you were
now you are not
the revolution then
has nearly been successful
|
Written by
Judith Skillman |
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.
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Written by
Walt Whitman |
OTHERS may praise what they like;
But I, from the banks of the running Missouri, praise nothing, in art, or aught else,
Till it has well inhaled the atmosphere of this river—also the western prairie-scent,
And fully exudes it again.
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