THE last, late guest
To the gate we followed;
Goodbye — and the rest
The night-wind swallowed.
House, garden, street,
Lay tenfold gloomy,
Where accents sweet
Had made music to me.
It was but a feast
With the dark coming on;
She was but a guest —
And now, she is gone.
Make love to me in Spanish.
Not with that other tongue.
I want you juntito a mi,
tender like the language
crooned to babies.
I want to be that
lullabied, mi bien
querido, that loved.
I want you inside
the mouth of my heart,
inside the harp of my wrists,
the sweet meat of the mango,
in the gold that dangles
from my ears and neck.
Say my name. Say it.
The way it’s supposed to be said.
I want to know that I knew you
even before I knew you.
(Source: torogozando, via heavenly-femme)
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All night I have slept with you
next to the sea, on the island.
Wild and sweet you were between pleasure and sleep,
between fire and water.
Perhaps very late
our dreams joined
at the top or at the bottom,
up above like branches moved by a common wind,
down below like red roots that touch.
Perhaps your dream
drifted from mine
and through the dark sea
was seeking me
when you did not yet exist,
when without sighting you
I sailed by your side,
and your eyes sought
bread, wine, love, and anger-
I heap upon you
because you are the cup
that was waiting for the gifts of my life.
I have slept with you
all night long while
the dark earth spins
with the living and the dead,
and on waking suddenly
in the midst of the shadow
my arm encircled your waist.
Neither night nor sleep
could separate us.
I have slept with you
and on waking, your mouth,
come from your dream,
gave me the taste of earth,
of sea water, of seaweed,
of the depths of your life,
and I received your kiss
moistened by the dawn
as if it came to me
from the sea that surrounds us.
Hey poetry fans! Suzanne here. You may not know me - I pop in and out of the backstage area here at FYPoetry, monitoring the blog along with our other poet Tumblrites. I’m coming out of the curtain for a second to address a few messages we’ve gotten here at HQ.
Word is - we do not accept personal submissions. FYPoetry was begun and remains a blog to spread previously-published work. If you’ve just read an amazing poet in your workshop and you want us to showcase that work, by all means, please send it over. But if you just got your own poem workshopped and you want the internet to see, we ain’t your guys. It’s not that we don’t think you’re all amazing little sapling poets out there. We just want to keep FYPoetry to its original premise, ya dig?
Am I not alone, as I thought I was, as I thought
The day was, the hour I walked into, morning
When I felt night fly from my chest where prospect had
Slackened, and close itself off, understanding, as I thought I did,
That the ground would resist my legs and not let them
Break nor let them be released into air as my heart, in its
Muscle, might be released from the body that surrounds it,
Like someone who, placing a hand on a shoulder's
Blade, felt a life move inside an hour and a day
Break from the day the hour meant something more than weakness,
More than fear, and flew forward into the depths of
Prospect, your arms, where you'd been, before me, waiting
For me, the way the body has always been waiting for the heart to sense
It is housed, it is needed, it will not be harmed.
Jesus it’s beautiful!
Great mother of big apples it is a pretty
You’re a bastard Mr. Death
And I wish you didn’t have no look-in here.
I don’t know how the rest of you feel,
But I feel drunk all the time
And I wish to hell we didn’t have to die.
O you’re a merry bastard Mr. Death
And I wish you didn’t have no hand in this game
Because it’s too damn beautiful for anybody to die.
- Kenneth Patchen
When I talk to my friends I pretend I am standing on the wings
of a flying plane. I cannot be trusted to tell them how I am.
Or if I am falling to earth weighing less
than a dozen roses. Sometimes I dream they have broken up
with their lovers and are carrying food to my house.
When I open the mailbox I hear their voices
like the long upward-winding curve of a train whistle
passing through the tall grasses and ferns
after the train has passed. I never get ahead of their shadows.
I embrace them in front of moving cars. I keep them away
from my miseries because to say I am miserable is to say I am like them.