the immense, illiterate, consoling angels.
the giraffe with his head cocked petulantly, weeping, hold me.
becominginvolved a woman lies down with a goose. they love each other. bliss, terribly private. quietly deathly quiet. away.
privateness - an oval pond in the park and they sit down by it, sorry for the ducks but not for themselves.
privilegeofbeing - somewhere a man and a woman are making love up above the angels my love this morning as much as you...
All of creation in offended by this distress. It is like the keening sound the moon makes sometimes, rising.
menagerie - although it would mean this, this miracle among the souls of animals. And you.
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Friday, January 13, 2006
Thursday, January 12, 2006
becoming involved
In Golden Gate Parka woman lies down with a goose.They stretch on their sides,they love each other.Rapt goose arches his spinethe way feathers can shuffle.People stop to stare.Bliss is terribly private.
When the woman turns away,the goose starts his odd mouthhonking and snapping at the air.He slowly crosses the moss trail,turns one blue eye back at his woman.Then quietly, deathly quiet,he puts one foot inand paddles away.
oh-
rw: turns one blue eye back at his woman (vDaily-short)
When the woman turns away,the goose starts his odd mouthhonking and snapping at the air.He slowly crosses the moss trail,turns one blue eye back at his woman.Then quietly, deathly quiet,he puts one foot inand paddles away.
oh-
Copyright © 2006 Elizabeth Rees All rights reserved
rw: turns one blue eye back at his woman (vDaily-short)
privateness
Privatenessby Laura Riding
They have a small bedroom. The bed is small, but they are not fat and they love each other. She sleeps with her knees neatly inside his knees and when they get up they do not get in each other's way. She says, "Put on the shirt with the blue patterns like little spotted plates," and he says, "Put on the white skirt that you wear the purple jacket with." They have no prejudices against colours but like what they have.
Their other room is not larger, but it is cleverly arranged, with a table for this and a table for that. He makes the sandwiches at one table while at another she writes a letter to a friend who needs money. She writes promptly to say they have no money a nd sends their love. It is not true that they have no money; but they are both out of work and must be careful with the little money they have. They are thinking of renting an office and selling advice on all subjects, for they are very intelligent people . The idea seems like a joke, and they talk about it jokingly; but they mean it.
They go to a large park. It costs little to get there and they know the very tree they want to sit under. It is more like a business trip than a holiday. They eat their lunch in a methodical way and afterwards look through the grass around them as a mothe r looks through her child's hair to see if it is clean. Then they think about their affairs and change their minds many times.
They walk about on the grass and feel sensible, but when they walk on paved paths they feel they are wasting their time. Finally they decide to commit suicide. They talk about it in natural tones because they may really do it--and they may not. There is a n oval pond in the park with solemn brown ducks paddling in it, and they sit down by it, sorry for the ducks paddling in it, and they sit down by it, sorry for the ducks but not for themselves.
They go out of the park at a different entrance from the one they came in by. There are strange restaurants all around they would never think of eating in. It makes them feel lonely, so they speed home in a taxi, though they can ill afford this. At home t here is the electric light, which makes them look at each other peculiarly. It is worth going out to be able to come home and look at each other in such a way--not a loving way or a tragic way, but as if to say, "It doesn't interest us what our story is-- that is for other people."
reminded by Becoming Involved - looked for Laura Riding Jackson park.
Progress of Stories, by Laura Riding
They go out of the park at a different entrance from the one they came in by
mc
They have a small bedroom. The bed is small, but they are not fat and they love each other. She sleeps with her knees neatly inside his knees and when they get up they do not get in each other's way. She says, "Put on the shirt with the blue patterns like little spotted plates," and he says, "Put on the white skirt that you wear the purple jacket with." They have no prejudices against colours but like what they have.
Their other room is not larger, but it is cleverly arranged, with a table for this and a table for that. He makes the sandwiches at one table while at another she writes a letter to a friend who needs money. She writes promptly to say they have no money a nd sends their love. It is not true that they have no money; but they are both out of work and must be careful with the little money they have. They are thinking of renting an office and selling advice on all subjects, for they are very intelligent people . The idea seems like a joke, and they talk about it jokingly; but they mean it.
They go to a large park. It costs little to get there and they know the very tree they want to sit under. It is more like a business trip than a holiday. They eat their lunch in a methodical way and afterwards look through the grass around them as a mothe r looks through her child's hair to see if it is clean. Then they think about their affairs and change their minds many times.
They walk about on the grass and feel sensible, but when they walk on paved paths they feel they are wasting their time. Finally they decide to commit suicide. They talk about it in natural tones because they may really do it--and they may not. There is a n oval pond in the park with solemn brown ducks paddling in it, and they sit down by it, sorry for the ducks paddling in it, and they sit down by it, sorry for the ducks but not for themselves.
They go out of the park at a different entrance from the one they came in by. There are strange restaurants all around they would never think of eating in. It makes them feel lonely, so they speed home in a taxi, though they can ill afford this. At home t here is the electric light, which makes them look at each other peculiarly. It is worth going out to be able to come home and look at each other in such a way--not a loving way or a tragic way, but as if to say, "It doesn't interest us what our story is-- that is for other people."
reminded by Becoming Involved - looked for Laura Riding Jackson park.
Progress of Stories, by Laura Riding
They go out of the park at a different entrance from the one they came in by
mc
privilegeofbeing
Becoming Involved reminds me of everything...~ somewhere a man and a woman are making love up above the angels my love this morning as much as you-="you could not" angels hass:
Many are making love. Up above, the angelsin the unshaken ether and crystal of human longingare braiding one another's hair, which is strawberry blondand the texture of cold rivers. They glancedown from time to time at the awkward ecstasy--it must look to them like featherless birdssplashing in the spring puddle of a bed--and then one woman, she is about to come,peels back the man's shut eyelids and says,look at me, and he does. Or is it the mantugging the curtain rope in that dark theater?Anyway, they do, they look at each other;two beings with evolved eyes, rapacious,startled, connected at the belly in an unbelievably sweetlubricious glue, stare at each other,and the angels are desolate. They hate it. They shudder patheticallylike lithographs of Victorian beggarswith perfect features and alabaster skin hawking ragsin the lewd alleys of the novel.All of creation in offended by this distress.It is like the keening sound the moon makes sometimes,rising. menagerie menagerie -although it would mean this, this - amid the -. The lovers especially cannot bear it,it fills them with unspeakable sadness, so thatthey close their eyes again and hold each other, eachfeeling the mortal singularity of the bodythey have enchanted out of death for an hour or so,and one day, running at sunset, the woman says to the man,I woke up feeling so sad this morning because I realizedthat you could not, as much as I love you,dear heart, cure my loneliness,wherewith she touched his cheek to reassure himthat she did not mean to hurt him with this truth.And the man is not hurt exactly,he understands that life has limits, that peopledie young, fail at love,fail of their ambitions. He runs beside her, he thinksof the sadness they have gasped and crooned their way out ofcoming, clutching each other with old, inventedforms of grace and clumsy gratitude, readyto be alone again, or dissatisfied, or merelycompanionable like the couples on the summer beachreading magazine articles about intimacy between the sexesto themselves, and to each other,and to the immense, illiterate, consoling angels.-Robert Hass
Many are making love. Up above, the angelsin the unshaken ether and crystal of human longingare braiding one another's hair, which is strawberry blondand the texture of cold rivers. They glancedown from time to time at the awkward ecstasy--it must look to them like featherless birdssplashing in the spring puddle of a bed--and then one woman, she is about to come,peels back the man's shut eyelids and says,look at me, and he does. Or is it the mantugging the curtain rope in that dark theater?Anyway, they do, they look at each other;two beings with evolved eyes, rapacious,startled, connected at the belly in an unbelievably sweetlubricious glue, stare at each other,and the angels are desolate. They hate it. They shudder patheticallylike lithographs of Victorian beggarswith perfect features and alabaster skin hawking ragsin the lewd alleys of the novel.All of creation in offended by this distress.It is like the keening sound the moon makes sometimes,rising. menagerie menagerie -although it would mean this, this - amid the -. The lovers especially cannot bear it,it fills them with unspeakable sadness, so thatthey close their eyes again and hold each other, eachfeeling the mortal singularity of the bodythey have enchanted out of death for an hour or so,and one day, running at sunset, the woman says to the man,I woke up feeling so sad this morning because I realizedthat you could not, as much as I love you,dear heart, cure my loneliness,wherewith she touched his cheek to reassure himthat she did not mean to hurt him with this truth.And the man is not hurt exactly,he understands that life has limits, that peopledie young, fail at love,fail of their ambitions. He runs beside her, he thinksof the sadness they have gasped and crooned their way out ofcoming, clutching each other with old, inventedforms of grace and clumsy gratitude, readyto be alone again, or dissatisfied, or merelycompanionable like the couples on the summer beachreading magazine articles about intimacy between the sexesto themselves, and to each other,and to the immense, illiterate, consoling angels.-Robert Hass
also rees - Rain
The cows' colors hurt my eyes—their white and black claims lie. yes. The rain, alone, tells the truth-yes-, the bearing down neutral cryof its gray, clear songsinging just how hard it is to seethrough the falling sky, the threatsand hopes no color at all butinsistent see-through clarity, down,down, so dark despite the early hour-
also by Elizabeth Rees in Verse Daily:
July 4, 2004: "Morning Drive to Ijamsville" "Against overturned cups of rain..."
also by Elizabeth Rees in Verse Daily:
July 4, 2004: "Morning Drive to Ijamsville" "Against overturned cups of rain..."
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
what is the question?
gertrude stein, dying.
or alice to gertrude, at her deathbed.
she may not have meant what I mean, which is
what is the question?
my love, tell me. tell me.
or alice to gertrude, at her deathbed.
she may not have meant what I mean, which is
what is the question?
my love, tell me. tell me.
harmless
you must know, I think, that I'm in love with you.
and Abe at the station seeing off Nicole in Tender is the Night - belly-sick in love with her for years. Page 70 - ... yet up to this morning Nicole had liked Abe better than anyone except Dick—and he had been heavy, belly-frightened, with love for her for years. ...
and Abe at the station seeing off Nicole in Tender is the Night - belly-sick in love with her for years. Page 70 - ... yet up to this morning Nicole had liked Abe better than anyone except Dick—and he had been heavy, belly-frightened, with love for her for years. ...
Monday, January 09, 2006
Saturday, December 31, 2005
ariachristina
my parents are sunshine
but without else, on a desert.
here in chicago, cloudy days,
wide water.
but without else, on a desert.
here in chicago, cloudy days,
wide water.
Monday, December 26, 2005
Legs
- - - - - I want long lean
- - - - - - - - - - luscious
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - love legs
-
- - - - - smooth soft sad
- - - - - - - street strut legs
-
- - - - - fast free fifth-beat
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - funk legs
Becky Stark
chips 93
p.1/frontispiece
The Funeral Trio
First, Stan Getz:
My father always plays your CDs on Sunday mornings
Bringing relentless Brazilian sunshine into the house
The finely wrinkled eyes
Paths of light
Bloodred flecks brown, earthy yellow
A translator from light to sound to emotion
Even the girl from Ipanema might shed a tear or two.
-
Then Dr. Seuss,
Stumbling his way down into the dark subconscious
Mind
Painting it with brightstripes, licking the walls of thought
Happily to tast the simple joy
To give the finger merrily to Freud
And other such somber grown-ups.
-
The slap in the face--
Miles, Time is before time
Too cool, torn-voiced pimp
Silverplay, brasshustle
Grasped by a hand from the sky
His own hand unseeing, dancing
Lungs, throat, and cheeks doing what they do.
Did.
John Brinker
chips 92
p.92. volume 55. blue w/Her Back on cover.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
titles
you need to whisper
don't accept me - it's more about where i am going - so different without you - come closer - so you're not angry? - i'm not done growing yet - he looks crazy to me - i'd like to be lost with you - i hate everyone, i hate everything, say sandwich, don't look at it, thursday?, that's not mine, mine!, give me that - just when we have become close, you have to leave - to me they are the only real things in the world - i would be lost without you - you have become a ghost - now now now - the only thing i want, i can't have - what is it like out there? - how do i look in your eyes? - just hold me - you couldn't have known - i wish we could talk like we used to - i'm here - i just want to go home -I don't want to forget you -i was lonely for something i forgot about - please forgive me if i take you for granted
for sam brown's drawings
For page after page our characters exchange comments that are insignificant but heavy with desolate unhappiness: 'Are you cold?' 'No, I'm not cold.' 'Would you like some tea?' "No thanks.' 'Are you tired?' "I don't know. Yes, perhaps I'm a bit tired.' This is how our characters talk. They talk like this because they don't know how to talk anymore. Little by little the most important matters, the most terrible confessions, come out: 'You killed him?' 'Yes, I killed him.'
natalia ginzburg 'Silence'
don't accept me - it's more about where i am going - so different without you - come closer - so you're not angry? - i'm not done growing yet - he looks crazy to me - i'd like to be lost with you - i hate everyone, i hate everything, say sandwich, don't look at it, thursday?, that's not mine, mine!, give me that - just when we have become close, you have to leave - to me they are the only real things in the world - i would be lost without you - you have become a ghost - now now now - the only thing i want, i can't have - what is it like out there? - how do i look in your eyes? - just hold me - you couldn't have known - i wish we could talk like we used to - i'm here - i just want to go home -I don't want to forget you -i was lonely for something i forgot about - please forgive me if i take you for granted
for sam brown's drawings
For page after page our characters exchange comments that are insignificant but heavy with desolate unhappiness: 'Are you cold?' 'No, I'm not cold.' 'Would you like some tea?' "No thanks.' 'Are you tired?' "I don't know. Yes, perhaps I'm a bit tired.' This is how our characters talk. They talk like this because they don't know how to talk anymore. Little by little the most important matters, the most terrible confessions, come out: 'You killed him?' 'Yes, I killed him.'
natalia ginzburg 'Silence'
Monday, December 12, 2005
a plea so desperate
-"what do you want me to do? stand on my head!?"
-please. stand on your head.
Lorrie Moore, I think: How to be an other woman.
and a plea so desperate it reads, come get me yesterday from a book I never read by?~Laurie Colwin ~ sleeping arrangements ah Laura Cunningham: on Page 86: "...am driven into the camp. Later that night, I scribble a postcard plea to my uncles, an appeal so desperate it reads: "Come get me yesterday."
-please. stand on your head.
Lorrie Moore, I think: How to be an other woman.
and a plea so desperate it reads, come get me yesterday from a book I never read by?~Laurie Colwin ~ sleeping arrangements ah Laura Cunningham: on Page 86: "...am driven into the camp. Later that night, I scribble a postcard plea to my uncles, an appeal so desperate it reads: "Come get me yesterday."
Sunday, December 11, 2005
at all
one night of love don't make up for six nights alone
but I'd rather have one than none Lord I'm flesh and bone
sometimes it seems that she ain't worth the trouble at all
but she can be worth the world if somehow you can touch her at all
Willie Nelson -
Waylon Jennings
but I'd rather have one than none Lord I'm flesh and bone
sometimes it seems that she ain't worth the trouble at all
but she can be worth the world if somehow you can touch her at all
Willie Nelson -
Waylon Jennings
Saturday, December 10, 2005
atlantis
bookstore on Santorini
your past life 11/8 pm You were born somewhere in the territory of modern Greece around the year 775.Your profession was that of a sailor or shoemaker.The lesson that your last past life brought to your present incarnation: The world is full of ill and lonely people. Do you remember now? do. you. remember.
your past life 11/8 pm You were born somewhere in the territory of modern Greece around the year 775.Your profession was that of a sailor or shoemaker.The lesson that your last past life brought to your present incarnation: The world is full of ill and lonely people. Do you remember now? do. you. remember.
love invents
Elizabeth, the book's protagonist and sometime narrator ah so it was not just the manuscript copy I read- It's startling when the book shifts to third person just before the halfway mark. "She was not drippingly miserable, she was not an affront to society," the narrator tells us. "She paid her bills. She didn't smell or piss on other people's lawns. She suffered from the opposite of `phantom limb' syndrome; something essential appeared to be present, but it was not." {she didn't become manager at the used bookstore where she worked and she didn't go to law school and she didn't own any cleaning supplies, which her mother would have said was a bad sign}
Elizabeth exists only when love, or at least the semblance of sex, exists. interesting-review-bostonphoenix
I was looking for this line: "it is a life that makes sense to me. . . . I am happy every morning and I am sad only late at night."
Elizabeth exists only when love, or at least the semblance of sex, exists. interesting-review-bostonphoenix
I was looking for this line: "it is a life that makes sense to me. . . . I am happy every morning and I am sad only late at night."
sensibility
all the gifts and all the needs --R.Bespallof
breakdown, call it breakdown, what are you going to do about it? (that's what I'd like to know) --P.Simon
if it were me, I'd pretend the crack wasn't in me. pretend it's in the grand canon. - baby et up all her spinoza? --F.ScottFitzgerald
worn-out shoes --N.Ginzburg
alone, alone, I'm all alone --the bridge of san luis rey
breakdown, call it breakdown, what are you going to do about it? (that's what I'd like to know) --P.Simon
if it were me, I'd pretend the crack wasn't in me. pretend it's in the grand canon. - baby et up all her spinoza? --F.ScottFitzgerald
worn-out shoes --N.Ginzburg
alone, alone, I'm all alone --the bridge of san luis rey
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