Poems and other Animals: February 2008 Archives

There is a magic to randomness, sometimes, isn't there?

Not altogether happy with the recent poem I wanted to post, I decided to open my summer/fall notebook to a random page and see what I could find there.




Look:

From a random page in my old notebook:

His quiet was unknown to her
Always a crowd in his star
Always an orbit to follow

The sand drained in the glass
as she drank it - one scraping grain
against her throat

his mind made up to sell
he canceled the light dinner
the leftover song
the shoes under the bed

His hands were flowers
and wilted
when she sang.

And from tonight's notebook:

His hands come unfolded
and in them are light birds
the wings made of leather
the feathers bells
the feet like seashells
crunching crunching underfoot

as he walks along the shore
dipping his face into the waves
and breathing in.

(both poems copyright 2007-2008 Lizbon Grav, all rights reserved.)

Note that I did not read the old poem before writing the new one. And the funny thing is, every poem I've written in the last several days has a line in it about "his hands." I have no idea what, if anything, is the significance of that, other than that I must have someone's hands on my mind. And curiously, I've apparently had someone's hands on my mind for months, even though the male players in my daily life have changed.

But art is not necessarily a direct reflection of life, and I have known some people who are only imaginary, in much the same way that there are dreams from childhood that might be real, or might not.

Hello my lovelies. I've had a busy, eventful, and rather swell weekend, which hasn't left me much time for blogging. Now I am on a long work deadline that will be crunching like a bowlful of headache cornflakes well into the wee hours, and so I really must focus.

But I didn't want to leave you hanging too long. Suffice it to say, I have been busy reuniting with my long-lost love, the bicycle. I have spent lots of time hanging with bike geeks, riding across bridges, jumping curbs, getting rained on, and talking bike parts, to my Turkish Delight (a shiny gold star to those who catch that obscure TV reference).

I also met her - in person, and, well, rather kidnapped her for the whole day, ably assisted by the alluring powers of pretty yarn and prettier girls (and one boy).

It was a good weekend, my friends, but my cat may never forgive me. She hates it when I have a social life. Wait till I snag a boy and bring him home, including, perhaps, an extra bicycle (beyond my two). She will be clawing my eyes out while I sleep. Too bad, dearie, too bad!

Ciao!

PS. Would you like a poem?

His dreams stretch until they are bonds
the sank-low feeling dissipates
as the piles of the shore recede
and his oar swallows juice after juice

his breath appears like a serpent of air
she signs puzzles in his face
the map of lines pointing out
various continents, east and west
her eyes move over the sands

Anytime he believes his heart
can grow new skills
he is done in by the silence
growing in the corners
like an old red dog
raw of temper
and cold of skin

only interested in training him
to stop coming aboard.

copyright 2008 lizbon grav. do not reproduce in any fashion, under penalty of death, prosecution, persecution, perfidy, prognostication, and sloth. Also defenestration.

In that last moment
as the cloud lifts her heel,
and she floats, transported
an alien faery above his face

he blinks his wet eyes
to clear them
but her wings have stained
his eyelids
and she is there
again and again

scorching each dream
he has about horses
and twilight
and canned yams eaten with fingers

his big yellow fingers
she will think about
as she flies to the next cloud.

copyright 2008 Lizbon Grav. All rights reserved.

And further, a list.

1) I ran.
2) I remembered what I love most about running. It is the best cure for sexual frustration there is, apart from actual sex. (And some sex isn't even as good a cure as some runs.)
3) I had to work. And work some more. I invoiced.
4) I made up funny epithets for the boy formerly known as Hot Blonde. All in code so I can say them on the street to my friends and we can laugh our asses off without being openly rude, even if he happens to be standing right behind us. Not that I always back off from open rudeness, but I still have some scruples about hurting his feelings (why I don't know. Perhaps because I suspect he means no harm by any of it, and because he has been such a pleasant distraction).
5) I watched two movies featuring mondo dopey eye candy (aka. Keanu). Well, he's only super-dopey in the second: Johnny Mnemonic. And then it's as much the script as it is his flat acting.
6) I drank some very strong hot chocolate.
7) I contemplated for the seventh time my next tattoo.
8) I decided to knit some socks as soon as my copy of Cat Bordhi arrives.
9) I made a knitting-und-bier date with Miz Fury and Special J. Rock on!
10) I tried on my Fremen goggles (they are blue within blue) and decided they are awesome. Same goes for new running shoes (thanks Daddy - those were a present).
11) I wrote a little poem and flung it up on the Interwebs. Instant!

That is all.

Today (I call it today until I go to bed, which gives me a little extra leeway) is the annual virtual poetry reading for St. Brigid's Day, and so I am putting up another.

But before that, a few important things that happened today:

I got invited to join Ravelry.

I got my yarn for Snow White (it is perfect).

I went out to brunch and ended up spontaneously spending the whole day out with the girls, meandering from eating place to haircut to eating place to shopping place to eating place. I am now very, very full. Overfull. Ouch.

I have sworn off pursuing boys. I am tired of the fuss and the nebulousness and the frustration. We came up with several good shorthands for this, which I will not at the moment share here, but suffice it to say, I had a moment in Ricky's where I was laughing so hard I was doubled over. And then I looked at a robot t-shirt and bought some sugar scrub. So I can have incredibly soft skin that no boys will get to enjoy. Also, earlier, I bought two more "date tops." Yeah, so that swearing off is going really well for me.

And so to the poem.

Cream, she said, and ran her
eyes into his stars
his legs tangled in a weedy
mess along hers
the dark blanket a forest
for them to chew into

The sudden dearth
his arms gone and then fluttered into birds
So many damn birds
All that's left after a rain
is chatter and flight.

copyright 2008 Lizbon Grav. All rights reserved.