Sunday, January 4, 2009

Naked Photos of My Girlfriend Press

I circled these two stanzas when I was 16 & in love with Pablo Neruda:

The Warsong Ends (Pablo Neruda)

All at once the wheels came to a stop, the unknown ones climbed down,
and there I was, a foreigner, in the solitudes of the jungle,
there, marooned in that truck stranded in night,
twenty years old, waiting for death, shrinking into my language.

Suddenly a drum began, a torch flared, there was a stirring,
and those I had taken for certain as my murderers
were dancing, beneath the towering dark of the jungle
to entertain a traveler strayed into those far regions.
So, when so many omens were pointing to the end of my life,
the tall drum, the flowering tresses, the flashing ankles
were dancing and smiling and singing for a foreigner.
I tell you this story, love, because the lesson,
the human lesson, shines through its strange disguises
and there the principles of the dawn were grounded in me--
there my mind awoke to the sense of men as brothers.


I stand by my penciled circling, they are two damn good stanzas.


I've been reading and re-reading Anne Heide's Wiving, from Dancing Girl Press. I think you should read it, too.


Here are some lines I particularly appreciate:

This is the trouble:

If all of us were a body,
we would quiet down.
But we are not.


This is the start:

Our hands grown digits,
unfit and unfamiliar.

We are always filled of children,
and of us:

much of us is made of them.


was I that much under you :: oak legs you want with


I find you

rummaging in the bathwater &
reassure you:

no children.


hands of sugar
hands of legs

Be in that house, dark, and I'll rescue

and in that bed, ache, and I'll undo


I have mistaken you for foliage (again).


Her leg's up caught in the wiver-tree.


See what I'm saying? Go buy it.

If you're in the mood for buying, you should also check out Lily Brown's Old With You, over at Kitchen Press:


I climbed a giant leaf at the end

of my imagination. Across

the spotted water, the hill

fastened its yellow bushels.

The imagination asked for all the cities,

for the canopy to get its machines out

and tile the leaves. My friend Lily

assumes what I want and it's so unfair.

The imagination shoves in and pushes

blithely out, a belt of pelicans, a plank

of hard clouds, bunches of doorknobs

halo the street-blighted hills.

I find a pile of antlers in the woods, assembled

for burning. I crawl beneath them and stay

there when the burners come with their fire.

Up in the canopy I dangle, touching nothing.


Go Lily, go Lily, go.

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