Ditty of First Desire -Federico García Lorca
November 30, 2011, 7:24 am
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In the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
A heart. And in the ripe evening
I wanted to be a nightingale.
A nightingale.(Soul,
turn orange-colored.
turn the color of love.)

In the vivid morning
I wanted to be myself.
A heart.

And at the evening’s end
I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale.

turn orange-colored.
turn the color of love. 


me, 1913
November 29, 2011, 7:20 am
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Army of Another – Nance Van Winckel
November 28, 2011, 8:29 pm
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Oh Little Wisdom,
something will find you, some nose, cold,
some sound, bark, some cough, some hush now,
some pain gone forth to meet the place
yours was, some vine cut from the gut,
some Juned-up sun, some tread, some mite.

Now That I am in Madrid I Can Think- Frank O’Hara
November 25, 2011, 10:39 am
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Just arrived home from Madrid.. one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever been to! I can’t wait to go back!

I think of you
and the continents brilliant and arid
and the slender heart you are sharing my share of with the American air
as the lungs I have felt sonorously subside slowly greet each morning
and your brown lashes flutter revealing two perfect dawns colored by New York

see a vast bridge stetching to the humbled outskirts with only you
Standing on the edge of the purple like an only tree
and in Toledo the olive groves’ soft blue look at the hills with silver
like glasses like and old ladies hair
It’s well known that God and I don’t get along together
It’s just a view of the brass works for me, I don’t care about the Moors
seen through you the great works of death, you are greater

you are smiling, you are emptying the world so we can be alone together.

TO HAVE A FRIEND by Tomaž Šalamun
November 14, 2011, 7:06 am
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“Poetry, says Salamun, came to him as a revelation, dropping, ‘like stones from the sky‘.”

I see the devil’s head, people,
I see his whole body
I never thought he could come so close
he longs for innocence, as we do,
I have the sensation
he was crammed into the wall for a long time

I have the feeling that his hands ache,
that he is tender and absorbed in thoughts,
he licks everything before killing it,
he bursts into tears, scraping meat, he is blessed
he has no friends, he is walking alone in the world

I have the feeling he is saying something to me
that he is watching me with regret
he knows I could never sleep with him
we are both humiliated

he reminds me of the English teacher
when he was pensioned off,
and young secret police recruits,
it seems his beatitude is failing
the souls squeal when he tortures them

he doesn’t drink them, as I imagined
it seems he derives no benefit from them
I think he would like to have a friend
to share goods and pleasure

he steps in the river and wets his head in it
he doesn’t know how to speak with it
he splashes on the surface
I will leave him as he is, I will not talk to him

Letter From My Wife
November 11, 2011, 6:03 pm
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(More Nazim Hikmet. I’m completely obsessed)

I want to die before you.
Do you think the one who follows
finds the one who went first?
I don’t think so.
It would be best to have me burned
and put in a jar
over your fireplace.
Make the jar
clear glass,
so you can watch me inside . . .
You see my sacrifice:
I give up being earth,
I give up being a flower,
just to stay near you.
And I become dust
to live with you.
Then, when you die,
you can come into my jar
and we’ll live there together,
your ashes with mine,
until some dizzy bride
or wayward grandson
tosses us out . . .
by then
we’ll be
so mixed
that even at the dump our atoms
will fall side by side.
We’ll dive into the earth together.
And if one day a wild flower
finds water and springs up from that piece of earth,
its stem will have
two blooms for sure:
one will be you,
the other me.

I’m not
about to die yet.
I want to bear another child.
I’m full of life.
My blood is hot.
I’ll live a long, long time—
with you.
Death doesn’t scare me,
I just don’t find our funeral arrangements
too attractive.
But everything could change
before I die.
Any chance you’ll get out of prison soon?
Something inside me says:

From “Letters From a Man in Solitary”
November 11, 2011, 7:24 am
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How many others are in this place?
I don’t know.
I’m alone far from them,
they’re all together far from me.
To talk anyone besides myself
is forbidden.
So I talk to myself.
But I find my conversation so boring,
my dear wife, that I sing songs.
And what do you know,
that awful, always off-key voice of mine
touches me so
that my heart breaks.
And just like the barefoot orphan
lost in the snow
in those old sad stories, my heart
– with moist blue eyes
and a little red runny rose-
wants to snuggle up in your arms.
It doesn’t make me blush
that right now
I’m this weak,
this selfish,
this human simply.
No doubt my state can be explained
physiologically, psychologically, etc.
Or maybe it’s
this barred window,
this earthen jug,
these four walls,
which for months have kept me from hearing
another human voice.

-Nazim Hikmet