the happy ones.

The happy ones are almost always also vulgar;

happiness has a way of thinking

that's rushed and has no time to look

but keeps on moving, compact and manic,

with contempt in passing for the dying:

Get on with your life, come on, buck up!

Those stilled by pain don't mix

with the cheerful, self-assured runners

but with those who walk at the same slow pace.

If one wheel locks and the other's turning

the turning one doesn't stop turning

but goes as far as it can, dragging the other

in a poor, skewed race until the cart

either comes to a halt or falls apart.

-patrizia cavalli

love iii

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything.

"A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"

"Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat. 
-george herbert

e.e. cummings

e.e. cummings makes me not want to capitalize or punctuate correctly

a pretty a day

a pretty a day
(and every fades)
is here and away
(but born are maids
to flower an hour
in all,all)

o yes to flower
until so blithe
a doer a wooer
some limber and lithe
some very fine mower
a tall;tall

some jerry so very
(and nellie and fan)
some handsomest harry
(and sally and nan
they tremble and cower
so pale:pale)

for betty was born
to never say nay
but lucy could learn
and lily could pray
and fewer were shyer
than doll.  doll

-e.e. cummings

egg-cited

I'm gona see my favorite poet tomorrow!


Five U.S. poets laureate—Billy Collins, Rita Dove, Daniel Hoffman, Kay Ryan, and Charles Simic—will mark the Poetry Society of America’s centennial. There will also be live music by Natalie Merchant and a Robert Frost monologue read by Maria Tucci.
The Great Hall, Cooper Union
7 East 7th St., New York, NY 10003 40.729092 -73.990592
at Third Ave.

I told my cousin about how I was excited about this, and she gave me a deadpan expression and said that sounds like the boringest thing she's ever heard.

I miss my kindred spirits. =(

one art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied.  It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

-elizabeth bishop

adieu

I crept out the bed at the break of dawn
Like a half-hearted lover in an expired affair.
I packed up the last of my belongings and numbly stared
At the hollowed rooms of our idyllic youth.
Our Still Life with Plastic Banana & Knife.
The wilted paper mistletoe that hung
As an homage to all things beautiful.
I checked my unkempt bedhair in that forbidden bathroom
that still conjured up feelings of tension and unease.

Our last bohemian bastion of our tender greenness
That housed the lost & weary, the dreamy & restless.
Haphazard dinners, solo dance parties,
Friday nights where I ain't got nobody~
The humble, little artist colony
That witnessed the birth of poetry and music.
I stood at the street corner, perched on the broken bicycle seat
Feeling a cold chill signaling that the dog days are over.
Heaving a sigh into the desolate, grey skies
I paid a silent farewell to my sweet corinthian home.

health

At this young, ripe age, I couldn't help but to think that my body is invincible. My concept of "illness" would fall within the confines of the common cold or the upset stomach that could easily be cured with a magical pill of Advil or Pepto.

But after this weekend, I realized that anyone (regardless of age, gender, or physical upkeep) can fall into the doomed hands of disease. Just one arbitrary day, your body (which you considered as "your own") can turn into a merciless enemy, something separate and counteractive to your being.

There is so much to be prayed for.

Billy Collins knows how to capture my thoughts so perfectly.

On Turning Ten

The whole idea of it makes me feel

like I'm coming down with something,

something worse than any stomach ache

or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--

a kind of measles of the spirit,

a mumps of the psyche,

a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.



You tell me it is too early to be looking back,

but that is because you have forgotten

the perfect simplicity of being one

and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.

But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.

At four I was an Arabian wizard.

I could make myself invisible

by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.

At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.



But now I am mostly at the window

watching the late afternoon light.

Back then it never fell so solemnly

against the side of my tree house,

and my bicycle never leaned against the garage

as it does today,

all the dark blue speed drained out of it.



This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,

as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.

It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,

time to turn the first big number.



It seems only yesterday I used to believe

there was nothing under my skin but light.

If you cut me I could shine.

But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,

I skin my knees. I bleed.



     -- Billy Collins

Poetry vs. Prose

I've always been inclined
to pick Poetry over Prose-
It has always been my design
For encapsulating passion or the morose.

Only with poems you can get by
With corny compliments or a kudos
Like "Your eyes are more beautiful than the sky"
or "Your scent is sweeter than a rose."

You can make fun little phrases for kicks
Like the common "Bros over hoes"
or my favorite- "Chicks over dicks"
Little mantras with a twist I suppose.

Everything sounds better in brevity
Who wants to read a long-winded piece
when poems can also carry longevity
With well-worded caprice?

Quality over quantity I say!
Isn't that the motto of our beloved fast-food joint?
I could go for a double-double or a milk shake
But that is straying away from the point.

Poetry- I will always show you favor
Though the neglected brother of prose
You will always be my favorite flavor
For writing my deepest thoughts- as it clearly shows.

prayer

I sometimes sit and wonder
About how God hears all our prayers
They must be shooting at him
A million at a time.
Could each individual voice be heard
Through this unruly tower of babel?

Does He sort through them
Like we sort through our stuffed inboxes
After returning from a month-long vacation?
Keeping the heavier, more consequential ones
About loved ones dying of cancer
Or battling addictions
And discarding others about
winning the lottery and elementary crushes?

Sometimes when I pray,
My words feel as faint as notes being played
on a miniature piano
-those kiddy ones with rainbow-colored keys
Getting lost in the dusty air.
A broken telegram that will never reach the hands
of its intended viewer.

And other times,
I imagine that my lightning words could somehow
Travel through the galaxy
Of heart-felt cries and drowsy murmurs,
Crystal clear like a bell
Ringing in the vast space of the heavens.

elizabeth bishop at 16 yrs of age

I introduce Penelope Gwin,
A friend of mine through thick and thin,
Who's travelled much in foreign parts
Pursuing culture and the arts.
"And also," says Penelope
"This family life is not for me.
I find it leads to deep depression
AndI was born for self-expression."
And so you see, it must be owned
Miss Gwin belongs to le beau monde.