Headpiece Filled With Straw

Breasts Like Martinis

By Jill McDonough

The bartender at Caesar's tells jokes we've heard a hundred times.
A shoelace walks into a bar, for example. I whisper
Sarah Evers told me that joke in sixth grade and Josey says
My brother Steve, 1982. A whore, a midget, a Chinaman,
nothing we haven't heard. Then a customer asks
Why are breasts like martinis? and they both start laughing.
They know this one, everybody knows this one, except
us. They don't even bother with the punch line. The bartender just says
Yeah, but I always said there should be a third one, on the back,
for dancing, dancing with the woman-shaped air behind the bar, his hand
on the breast on her back. So we figure three is too many,
one's not enough. Okay; we can do better than that. I like my breasts
like I like my martinis, we say: Small and bruised or big and dry. Perfect.
Overflowing. Reeking of juniper, spilling all over the bar.
When I have a migraine and she reaches for me, I say
Josey, my breasts are like martinis. She nods, solemn:
People should keep their goddamn hands off yours. How
could we tell these jokes to the bartender? We can't. He'll never know.
I say it after scrubbing the kitchen cabinets, and she gets it:
dirty and wet. Walking in the wind, Josey says My breasts
are like martinis and I hail a cab, know she means shaking, ice cold.

Listen to Jill McDonough read this poem.

Link: "Breasts Like Martinis" - By Jill McDonough - Slate Magazine.

Seriously sexy...

by Carol Ann Duffy (new British Poet Laureate)

Frau Freud

Ladies, for arguments sake, let us say

That I've seen my fair share of ding-a-ling, member and jock,

Of todger and nudger and percy and cock, of tackle,

Of three-for-a-bob, of willy and winky; in fact,

you could say, I'm as au fait with Hunt-the-Salami

as Ms M. Lewinsky – equally sick up to here

with the beef bayonet, the pork sword, the saveloy,

love-muscle, night-crawler, dong, the dick, prick,

dipstick and wick, the rammer, the slammer, the Rupert,

the shlong. Don't get me wrong, I've no axe to grind

with the snake in the trousers, the wife's best friend,

the weapon, the python – I suppose what I mean is,

ladies, dear ladies, the average penis is – not pretty...

the squint of its envious solitary eye...one's feeling of

pity...

Stuffed

I put two yellow peepers in an owl.

Wow. I fix the grin of crocodile.

Spiv. I sew the slither of an eel.

I jerk, kick-start, the back hooves of a mule.

Wild. I hold the red rag to a bull.

Mad. I spread the feathers of a gull.

I screw a tight snarl to a weasel.

Fierce. I stitch the flippers on a seal.

Splayed. I pierce the heartbeat of a quail.

I like her to be naked and to kneel.

Tame. My motionless, my living doll.

Mute. And afterwards I like her not to tell.

'It was my daughter who made me accept Poet's job' - News, Books - The Independent.

Carol Ann Duffy named as Poet Laureate

Carol Ann Duffy named as Poet Laureate - News, Books - The Independent.

Valentine

By Carol Ann Duffy

Not a red rose or a satin heart.

I give you an onion.
It is a moon wrapped in brown paper.
It promises light
like the careful undressing of love.

Here.
It will blind you with tears
like a lover.
It will make your reflection
a wobbling photo of grief.

I am trying to be truthful.
Not a cute card or a kissogram.

I give you an onion.
Its fierce kiss will stay on your lips,
possessive and faithful as we are,
for as long as we are.

Take it.
Its platinum loops shrink to a wedding-ring, if you like.

Lethal.
Its scent will cling to your fingers,
cling to your knife.

Tracks

By Marge Piercy

The small birds leave cuneiform
messages on the snow: I have
been here, I am hungry, I
must eat. Where I dropped
seeds they scrape down
to pine needles and frozen sand.

Sometimes when snow flickers
past the windows, muffles trees
and bushes, buries the path,
the jays come knocking with their beaks
on my bedroom window:
to them I am made of seeds.

To the cats I am mother and lover,
lap and toy, cook and cleaner.
To the coyotes I am chaser and shouter.
To the crows, watcher, protector.
To the possums, the foxes, the skunks,
a shadow passing, a moment's wind.

I was bad watchful mommy to one man.
To another I was forgiving sister
whose hand poured out honey and aloe;
to that woman I was a gale whose lashing
waves threatened her foundation; to this
one, an oak to her flowering vine.

I have worn the faces, the masks
of hieroglyphs, gods and demons
bat-faced ghosts, sibyls and thieves,
lover, loser, red rose and ragweed,
these are the tracks I have left
on the white crust of time.

       

Link: "Tracks" by Marge Piercy (on virb.com).

Sonnet #29 - When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes

By William Shakespeare

When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least,
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate

For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Link: Shakespeare - When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes.

Suzanne Takes You Down

By Leonard Cohen

You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind.

And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with his mind.

Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body with her mind.

Link: Leonard Cohen | Suzanne Lyrics [LD].

Bewitched, Bothered, And Bewildered

by Lorentz Hart

After one whole quart of brandy
Like a daisy, I'm awake
With no Bromo-Seltzer handy
I don't even shake

Men are not a new sensation
I've done pretty well I think
But this half-pint imitation
Put me on the blink

I'm wild again, beguiled again
A simpering, whimpering child again
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

Couldn't sleep and wouldn't sleep
When love came and told me, I shouldn't sleep
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

Lost my heart, but what of it
He is cold I agree
He can laugh, but I love it
Although the laugh's on me

I'll sing to him, each spring to him
And long, for the day when I'll cling to him
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

He's a fool and don't I know it
But a fool can have his charms
I'm in love and don't I show it
Like a babe in arms

Love's the same old sad sensation
Lately I've not slept a wink
Since this half-pint imitation
Put me on the blink

I've sinned a lot, I'm mean a lot
But I'm like sweet seventeen a lot
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

I'll sing to him, each spring to him
And worship the trousers that cling to him
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

When he talks, he is seeking
Words to get off his chest
Horizontally speaking, he's at his very best

Vexed again, perplexed again
Thank God, I can be oversexed again
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - am I

Wise at last, my eyes at last,
Are cutting you down to your size at last
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - no more

Burned a lot, but learned a lot
And now you are broke, so you earned a lot
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - no more

Couldn't eat, was dispeptic
Life was so hard to bear
Now my heart's antiseptic
Since you moved out of there

Romance, finis.
Your chance, finis.
Those ants that invaded my pants, finis.
Bewitched, bothered and bewildered - no more

Link: Bewitched, Bothered, And Bewildered Lyrics.

Twenty-eight Swimmers in 1855

I'm living a bit in Walt Whitman these days. An oddly expansive feeling, after having lived so long in Emily Dickinson. It feels strange, and wonderful, living in his backyard. It's like I can FEEL him, like I never could before.

Link: Leaves of Grass (1855).

Twenty-Eight Swimmers

By Walt Whitman
1855 Leaves of Grass

Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore, 
Twenty-eight young men, and all so friendly, 
Twenty-eight years of womanly life, and all so lonesome. 

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank, 
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.   

Which of the young men does she like the best? 
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.   

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you, 
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.   

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather, 
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.   

The beards of the young men glistened with wet, it ran from their long hair, 
Little streams passed all over their bodies.   

An unseen hand also passed over their bodies, 
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs. 

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies swell to the sun . . . . they do not ask who seizes fast to them, 
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending arch, 
They do not think whom they souse with spray.   

I believe in you my soul

By Walt Whitman
From Song of Myself

I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you,
And you must not be abased to the other.
Loaf with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.
I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips, and gently turned over upon me,
And parted the shirt from my bosom bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stripped heart,
And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held my feet.
Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heaped stones, elder, mullein and pokeweed.

Link: Walt Whitman: [5] I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you, (from Song of Myself).

Her breast is fit for pearls

By Emily Dickinson

Her breast is fit for pearls,
But I was not a `Diver' -
Her brow is fit for thrones
But I have not a crest.
Her heart is fit for home -
I - a Sparrow - build there
Sweet twigs and twine
My perennial nest.

Link: Isle of Lesbos: Poetry of Emily Dickinson.