Perhaps life is that thwarted moment
when my gaze destroys itself in the pupil of your eyes.
And in this lies a sensation
which I will mingle with the perception of the moon and the discovery of darkness.
In a room the size of one loneliness
the size of one love
looks at the simple pretexts of its happiness,
at the fading of the beauty of the flowers in the vase
at the sapling you planted in the garden of our house
at the song of the canaries
that sing to the size of one window.
—Forugh Farrokhzad, from “Another Birth,” in Another Birth and Other Poems (Mage Publishers, 2010)
it’s just. ferguson isn’t over. this shit won’t ever be over. but people have stopped reblogging, stopped posting, stopped raising awareness for this major event. people are still angry. i’m still angry. stay angry.
Bells are they—shaped on the eighth day—silvered
percussion in the morning—are the morning.
Swing switch sway. Hold the day away a little
longer, a little slower, a little easy. Call to me—
Goodbye again. Say there is a little song in my head
and because of it I can’t sleep or change my mind
about the future. Now the song runs all the way down
to the beach where I sit as if the sky
were my room now. No one, not even you,
can hear me singing. Not even me.
As if the music rose from the mouth of the ocean.
No mouth. Like rain before it reaches us.
Like wind twirling dresses on the clothesline.
Who has no one has the history of the ocean.
Lord, give me two more days. So that
the last moments may be with someone.
—Jason Shinder, “Ocean,” Stupid Hope: Poems (Graywolf Press, 2009)
Inebriate of air am I,
And debauchee of dew,
Reeling, through endless summer days,
From inns of molten blue.