She Belongs to Me
Real Poetry
Hi there, ten people who read this site. You might have noticed my dabbling (“Listen to me, dabble”) in poetry a bit. I figure poetry is one of those things that must find its way out – even it’s bad (as witnessed on this season’s The Bachelorette) – I don’t expect mine to be good but it’s the kind of thing that you’re better off doing than not doing.
But here is a great poem by a great poet – maybe the best or certainly one of the best. His poems are the kinds of things that leave me generally in awe of the human race and our giant brains.
Here’s to opening and upward,to leaf and to sap
ee cummingshere’s to opening and upward,to leaf and to sap
and to your(inmyarms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rainand here’s to silent certainly mountains;and to
a disappearing poet of always,snow
and to morning;and to morning’s beautiful friend
twilight(and a first dream called ocean)andlet must or if be damned with whomever’s afraid
down with ought with because every brain
which thinks it thinks,nor dares to feel(but up
with joy;and up with laughing and drunkenness)here’s to one undiscoverable guess
of whose mad skill each world of blood is made
(whose fatal songs are moving in the moon
Something must be done
Early morning.
Wet.
Damp clothes, steam rising,
Recorded in sequence–
played back again.
Then once more again.
Once more to yes.
Coming in fresh,
leaving torched.
Touched.
before the sun comes up —
Before
where your hands ran
the roadmap of every curve
of flesh clothed and naked
Fevered hands cupped
the horizon line
You were blind for the touching.
Over and under,
palms remembering
as though it was the last time
they would be there,
rounding the wide oval of my ass,
then back upwards, anchored there
in accidental, unpredictable electricity.
Only words don’t come.
Once again the hands dive back down
Up the side,
down the back, around and up
and back down.
No borders or roadsigns,
no speed limit.
Just the light on the road
taking us there. Again.
And Again.
God’s Assessment of the Human Race
Dogs of the Telluride Film Festival
When I’m walking the streets of Telluride I can’t not take pictures of dogs. Ask me why — go ahead. Right, no answer except that dogs are just happy to be almost anywhere if they’re being treated kindly. Dogs at Telluride are maybe the happiest I’ve seen anywhere. They are always wagging their tails, smiling, guarding their homes or their owners. They’re so loyal and unique.
They each have their own personalities – you can really see it when you “meet” them on the street.
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