Befriend.

Baked Poetess

Mad Girl's Love Song

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
I fancied you'd return the way you said,
But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)







Plath, Sylvia. "Mad Girl's Love Song." Mademoiselle Aug. 1953

Live.

Trade.

Love, Sex, and Spring

Yes

In the other, the sunken life,
in the world of green feedings,
all the leaves say yes and meadows
of curved stems say yes and warmth
flows from the depth of this and out toward
horizons where hills are still transparent
and the ground white with drippings from the moon.

Waking from this memory of green,
we'll face the skirmish of each day
with hostages retrieved from the night.
this time will be different,
new patterns for the feet,
wings for the eyes
and our names everywhere like grass.

We hold darkness in our palms
No maps to where we're going,
where we've been. The hours
move like secrets as silence
stretches a live wire
overhead. In spite of wax and burning
sand, years move in hesitations
and a moment lasts forever
as we gather handfuls of time
to rub against our mouths.

We say yes to the peeling away of winter
to rain's slanted messages
and the language of warm winds, yes
to yeasty roots burrowing in earth
to skeletal trees putting on flesh
to ground smearing itself with green pigment.

and the sun blooming in our boides
with a promise more permanent than love.
yes to the unborn waiting to be born,
to the sky stretching naked overhead
and the days so compact and clear,
we could carry them in our arms.


Ruth Daigon

Change.

Borrowed from Grog.

Vote.

Borrowed from Grog

Reflect.

Photo by Gabriele Simonetti.

Doctor's Notes

The Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

Williams, William Carlos. Spring and All. Dijon, France. Robert McAlmon, 1923.

Shadows

Shadows cast by the street light

under the stars,

the head is tilted back,

the long shadow of the legs

presumes a world taken for granted

on which the cricket trills.






Williams, William Carlos. Pictures from Brueghel and Other Poems: Collected Poems, 1950-1962. New Directions Publishing, 1967.

Focus.