NaPoWriMo - day sixteen

zeal

they thought they had the answer.

they wouldn’t allow for questions.

they silenced the writers and poets,

put the singers in cells without windows,

placed chains on the dancers’ ankles,

broke the musicians’ fingers.

all this work, all this attention,

all their missionary zeal for nought.

what result were they hoping for?

what did they believe would come of this?

perhaps they wanted to protect the heart,

prevent the soul from sicknesses.

perhaps they were afraid of carrying burdens,

passing judgement on the fruits of too much passion.

Singing the Pain Back in the Wound by Gregory Orr - NPM16

I crouch naked at the wound's edge

and call its name softly,

until it hovers over me and I am clothed

in its shadow. Then I throw ropes

over it, pulling it down into the wound

that its body fits perfectly

like a fish-shaped cork.

Its wings beat frantically. I lash them together,

fold them carefully into a black

bundle on its back.

 

Orr, Gregory "Singing the Pain Back into the Wound" Burning the Empty Nests. Pittsburgh: Carnegie Mellon University Press, 1997. 53.

NaPoWriMo - day fifteen

wondering

once upon a time

i was with many women

(one would argue that being with more

than one is an embarrassment

of longing). once upon a time

i was caught

and that thudding in my chest

stopped

me in my tracks, spinning

suddenly into an uncertain future

but not before arguments

moved beyond bodies, beyond words.

once upon a time

i used words as currency

buying and selling and

trading my body for secrets

one more tool for seduction,

to draw you

to my side, in my bed, my arms,

“my heart”

enwrapped in the story of you

reflected in the eye

my gaze more or less

lovingly focused

on one part or another,

the field

of vision an opportunity

to fix you in my mind.

i cannot pretend to understand

what drew them

to draw near to me and surrender

their most intimate self

the desire to explore the edges

of a mystery

curiosity about another body,

what sounds are made

as you elicit surprise with your hands,

mouthing

the promise of communion,

a coming together

of body, soul, spirit full of wondering

about the moment

someone says stop. enough. i am full.

or empty.

A Pantoum for Whitman by Mark Lavorato - NPM15

A Pantoum for Whitman

And I heard a whisper saying: live, live
in the mountains reading Whitman.
So I set out into a moon-filled night,
to love, stepping deep through snowdrifts.

In the mountains reading Whitman,
wildly studying Leaves of Grass
to love, stepping deep through snowdrifts,
swirling with little change through the years.

Wildly studying leaves of grass
that sprout from the blue-white banks,
swirling with little change through the years,
feeling, somehow, that I was getting close.

That sprout from the blue-white banks,
haunting me in the way of perfect words;
feeling, somehow, that I was getting close,
I listened, as if for a remnant of him

haunting me in the way of perfect words.
So I set out into a moon-filled night.
I listened, as if for a remnant of him,
and I heard a whisper saying: live, live.

Lavorato, Mark. "A Pantoum for Whitman" Poet to Poet. Roorda, Julie and Elana Wolff, eds. Toronto: Guernica Editions, Inc., 2012. 63.

NaPoWriMo - day fourteen

so much speaking

words of life are

words of life

out of your mouth

both blessing and curse

the wounds you intend

and the sweet wound

the ornament of words

promises woven into a cloak

the whisper of memory

the cold hand of regret

the hot flush of shame

soft kiss of forgiveness

the war of attrition

eyes wide open

the subtle gesture

the faint whiff of grace

the sharpened tongue

the intimidating roar

the gift of flowers

a gift of song

you already know the words:

speak to the mountain