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I do like it here

they feed me strawberries and goat cheese with supper,
the guest house smells of new wood, moth-free  
beams crash through my forehead,  
nail-slick their balanced cracks fool.    
In steeple churches, widows hold bell ringing sessions,
I listen from the cold steps of the Abbey
where the walls have nursery rhymes nailed around locks -  
prayers on the lips of unborn children.
There are no potential marriage partners, mother,
and the looks of men are only provisional,
boys too young and pious
waltz in the aisles like butlers at a ghosts’ reunion,
their lean voices frighten, grip-shut my paralyzed jaws.
At the bar, the fat man’s daughter purrs like a cat,
tired of serving tea to tourists with hats  
says she’ll marry in a rush, bury herself
ten feet tall and growing,  
dig-in with the singular clarity of shadows
under a lamp.  
There is a woman dressed like a poodle,  
whistles at me every time I threaten leaving,  
mocks the holes in my clothes, the stamped letters,  
the miles soled in worn-out boots,  
the boats over the river, the cheap bus trips,
your telegrams, mother, and the static cable-ferries
whose laughter lives inside feverish muscles,
not hoping to return.
I present myself, mother, marrow-thick
out of the immense breathing of a brilliant sky,
a friend comes undone in my palm-curve,
together we stay the silence, all love  
suddenly slips into eternity, glitters and grins  
with the unfathomable clarity
entrusted in the great canopy of its insistent flowing.

6 Jun 06

Rated 8 (9) by 2 users.
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'bells ringing sessions'  doesn't feel right...maybe bell ringing sessions? i will come back to this. so far i am loving it.
 — unknown

sorry, a typo
thanks for catching it
 — slancho

Your psychosis thrills me: clangs and clamours
give me shudders: poodle woman, fat man. Mother
calls Me in this poem. I thirst for more.
 — DianaTrees

you're welcome, cutie.

 — unknown

This is so evocative. At first I thought it was set in another era, until the phone calls of l. 26.

My favorite line is 8, I think.

"beams" in l. 4 -- sunbeams? Then why nails and cracks in l. 5? Or beams of wood -- in which case l. 5 makes sense, but then ouch.

I'll reread it and ponder. This is like a beautiful gift to keep turning over and admiring.
 — leukothea


This puts me in a Master + Marguerita mood. ( Perhaps it's line 15. Conjures up visions of  Behemoth) The voice is both girl and goddess.
( not surprising, come to think of it). The images startle and tease the senses.
I stumble quite badly around line 30, but I think it's because I have to dig in deeper.  This poem saddens me so cruelly, and I don't know why.

 — borntodance

S., thanks for loving (it).  Where have you been?

Diana, you have perhaps tapped on the correct word to descibe the mood in this poem, psychosis indeed.  I am glad you enjoyed the read and that it did not seem overly abstract, I am often accused of such crimes.  Thank you, dear!

leukothea, the beams are woodbeams, which also refers back to the new wood in l3 and yes, it is very painful indeed.  Though I know they are there, I always manage to bash my head ... thus the line: "nail slick their balanced cracks fool" - if they were more uneven or had pieces of wood sticking out of them, I might avoid crashing my head through them.  But since they are so unrealistically smooth ... bang we go several times daily.  I changed the phone calls to telegrams, I think this was a good call on your part, thank you for pointing it out to me.  Anyway, if this were a true story, my mother would send me postcards.  

Grace, actually I myself stumble around line 30.  I remember I wanted to offset the dailiness of habitual encounters, strange people and the whole of the four preceding stanzas with the dailiness of the kind of beauty that bears witness to its own presence, always there, though sometimes heavy light.  Why would anyone want to stay in a place where widows ring the church bells and women dress like poodles and there are no men to wait for ... but if not for the last stanza ... the friend, the sunlight at dawn, the last four lines referring back to "love" and its insistent though at times interrupted flowing.  I am having trouble with the last stanza as well, seems to be too abstract in comparison with the rest of the poem and if you have any suggestions ... I am always working and will send you any revised versions in an e-mail.  I am sorry this poem should sadden you, but it saddens me as well.  Know I love you, dear lady

Thanks to all for the comments once again,
 — slancho

Maria, This is so divine.  I was yearning to be there, at the bar, with you, and the fat man's daughter.  I like it there too, and I haven't been.
 — kitkat

Katie, I have missed you.  You are always welcome to come over, sweetheart, and until then, I am glad you still enjoy my poetry and its occasional twists of hospitality.  I will get in touch later on today.

 — slancho

their balanced cracks fool?

I don't get it.
 — unknown

the cracks in the (wood)beams are so well polished and covered over that they fool me into thinking they are smoother than they are and I bump my head in them all the time - thus the fooling.  
I hope this helps
Thank you for visiting, unknown
 — slancho


 — unknown

you are welcome, unknown, I am glad the explanation helped - I hope it does not lead to more people stumbling ... maybe I need to change the wording, I will think about this
 — slancho

slancho i would make a good marriage partner. my looks are like a pious poodle.

when are we going out so my palms can meet the sine of your spine?
 — unknown

is the unknown who is kindly offering to take my hand in marriage TheYoungCrow by any chance or what was the poem where we kept fighting over sign and sine cirves.  I will have to find it - but I think I deleted it from my archive on PC

anyway, methinks a pious poodle would need an amoral bitch and I tend to differ
 — slancho

postmodern babes are the best. nothing like taking advantage of insecure gals bathed in flimsy contexts
 — unknown

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