National Poetry Month

April is considered National Poetry Month in the States (at least among the “asshole literati” – which is an inside joke – of which I count myself one, even if only on the absolute periphery), so I’m going to try an experiment. I’m going to post a poem every day for the month of April. Links to the poems on the original sites will be included in the poem’s title. I figure, I want to do this for two reasons –

  1. It’ll introduce me to poets and poems I’ve never seen nor read before.
  2. To see if I can actually stick to my goal. Because I suck at sticking to goals.

Given the fact that it started yesterday, I’m already a day in the hole. *shrug* May not bode well, but hey, I can only but try. So today, it’s a twofer. Both by LGBTQ authors. Both deal with wlw sex. If that’s offensive to you…oh well.

And if anyone’s got any suggestions for poems – I’m all ears (and eyes).

Enjoy.


Grief Work

I have gazed the black flower blooming
her animal eye. Gacela oscura. Negra llorona.

Along the clayen banks I follow her-astonished,
gathering grief’s petals she lets fall like horns.

Why not now go toward the things I love?

Like Jacob’s angel, I touched the garnet of her wrist,
and she knew my name. And I knew hers—
it was Auxocromo, it was Cromóforo, it was Eliza.
It hurtled through me like honeyed-rum.

When the eyes and lips are touched with honey
what is seen and said will never be the same.

Eve took the apple in that ache-opened mouth,
on fire and in pieces, from the knife’s sharp edge.

In the photo her fist presses against the red-gold
geometry of her thigh. Black nylon, black garter,
unsolvable mysterium—I have to close my eyes to see.

Achilles chasing Hektor round the walls of Ilium
three times. How long must I circle
the high gate above her knees?

Again the gods put their large hands in me,
move me, break my heart like a clay jar of wine,
loosen a beast from some darklong depth—

my melancholy is hoofed. I, the terrible beautiful
Lampon, a shining devour-horse tethered
at the bronze manger of her collarbones.

I do my grief work with her body—labor
to make the emerald tigers in her hips leap,
lead them burning green
to drink from the violet jetting her.

We go where there is love, to the river,
on our knees beneath the sweet water.
I pull her under four times
until we are rivered. We are rearranged.

I wash the silk and silt of her from my hands—
now who I come to, I come clean to, I come good to.

Love Poem

Audre Lorde, 19341992

Speak earth and bless me with what is richest
make sky flow honey out of my hips
rigid as mountains
spread over a valley
carved out by the mouth of rain.

And I knew when I entered her I was
high wind in her forests hollow
fingers whispering sound
honey flowed
from the split cup
impaled on a lance of tongues
on the tips of her breasts on her navel
and my breath
howling into her entrances
through lungs of pain.

Greedy as herring-gulls
or a child
I swing out over the earth
over and over
again.

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