You only learn from mistakes if you make them first.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone.

My friend Alex occasionally writes poems. It seems like most of them are about me, mainly because I love his poems and ask him to write them. One of his favourite things to do when drunk and in a crowd is to embarrass me by reciting one he wrote within a week of meeting me. I posted it on here over 2 years ago, i'm sure you can find it if you search. Anyway, I keep asking him to write nicer, less sordid poems about me, and as a Valentine's gift he wrote me one. Apparently it's supposed to be more of a song than a poem, but Alex doesn't play any instruments. Anyway, here is it.

Valentines Pine

Lucy got lost when life gave her a hand,

And it gave her a kick when she was trying to stand,

Gives you a stitch when you run too fast,

Better slow down or it'll break your heart,

She thought I was a dick when I knew I was a charmer,

Rhyme about her tits, that's a winner to disarm her,

Did I really try to tickle her with prose on masturbation?

I tried to write her Lorca but I lost it in translation,

It's not about love, just a tipple of fun,

Try for five when you can't have one,

Rip if off quick, or it's gonna hurt worse,

Only learn from mistakes if you make them first,

All she saw was a fist when I gave her a hand,

Now she gets a kick out of making me stand,

Call her a bitch when I know I'm a tart,

Songs are sweeter when you break some hearts,

Take a gander at this girl that makes any man tingle,

What cynic would believe that this summertime's single,

To dare but to dream gives your heart a fatigue,

I'm betting even Nemo couldn't get to her league,

In the highest of stakes you don't get any nuts,

Anorexics tend to lack any guts,

I tried, I lost, and I looked a total tit-
But at least I had a go at it,

It's a day of love, that much is true,

Still, it's not that nice when love's evading you,

No-one reaches for the brightest stars,

They're all scared they'll get a broken heart.

That boy, he's a total sweetheart.

Anyway, my Valentine's plans include eating crepes, rehearsing and watching all three Toy Story films with my friends; and while a large part of me wishes my day were slightly more romantic, I have to say that as a plan it doesn't sound too shabby. I don't like how it has become cool to hate Valentine's day. I think any day that celebrates love and good feeling is a great thing, and that there should be more of them throughout the year.

If you're in love, I hope you have a wonderful day. If you're not, i hope you have an even better one.

Cleavage warfare

Today was pretty great in a very low key way. As a result, today's photos are of unexpected nice things.

I guess i just thought it was great because it should have been crap. I'm still ill, I had my essay to write and the newspaper page to finish, as well as an events team meeting to go to, but everything went so easily and smoothly that I'm at home, in bed, at half past 8. This never happens!

It's my mum's birthday today, and i wasn't able to talk to her because she's off on an adventure in Muscat, so i thought I'd take this opportunity to tell her and the rest of the world that i think she's wonderful and amazing and that I love her very, very much.

One of the reasons I love her is that she makes me look like an idiot pretty regularly, see...

Yeah, she'll do for now.

On an entirely unrelated note, Alex sent me the poem he wrote about me and my friend Rosemary Terry. It's horribly inappropriate, but i love it, so i thought I'd post it. You can look back through posts from this time 2 years ago for his previous poems if you want the full experience.

Rosemary Terror

 

Doesn't know what she wants, but she knows how to get it,

A friend when she's drunk, though she'd rather forget it,

To look at her you'd think a sin,

Those blameless eyes that draw you in,

But don't be fooled, she'll blast your wits,

While you're distracted by her tits,

And use those sweetest virgin eyes,

To kiss the boys and make them cry,

What use is mortal man's erection,

Coming up against perfection,

Lost amongst a sea of suitors,

Lucid dreams, OK Computers,

Yet when I think all hope has slipped,

A traitor's smile escapes her lips,

Attention that she knows I crave,

I'm falling and I won't be saved,

It takes some skill to puppet me,

And she just got an MSc,

Knowing lips so full and juicy,

How she teases just like Lucy...

Oh my God, she's just like Lucy,

Using hatred to seduce me,

Cleavage warfare keeps me wanking,

Terry front and Lucy flanking,

Backing me in to a corner,

How this makes me want to horn her...

Who?!

Who do I want to fuck again?

20 catches in my brain,

I just don't need a couple more,

To beat my lust in to the floor,

My hungry heart is so confused,

Now they want to make me choose,

But why make such a choice at all?

If Onyx had to make the call,

He'd split himself to there and thine,

And hit two birds at the exact same time!

So Rosemary and Lucy stop your squabbling over me,

And solve the fight in bed tonight, mine's big enough for three.

Isn't he charming?!

I'm going to finish editing my essay tonight, but I'm pretty proud of it, so i might post it up here tomorrow, in case you're wondering what i do at university apart from get stressed and provoke perverse poets.

Find success in passionate failures

I should have posted this on Friday, but it's been a busy, drunken and kind of awesome weekend, so i delayed.

So, on Friday we rehearsed Act 1 for 3 hours. It was the first time James was actually up and acting, and he was great, as i knew he would be. We ran through the act twice, with me moving James around, slotting him in to the staging we had already worked out. Again a couple of people were missing, but i think the cast have FINALLY realized how hard they have to work to make the show a success, and everyone seems to really be buckling down.

There are some really lovely moments already, and since from tomorrow none of the cast will have scripts in their hands (i say, blinded by insane and futile hope) we should be able to develop these even further. As I've said before, this is my favourite part of rehearsing. I like when i can nitpick tiny little moments, because at the end of the day that's what makes the show interesting to watch. I'm apprehensive about tomorrow's rehearsals. I really want people to know their lines and i don't think they will, but i think by forbidding them to have their scripts anywhere near the stage I'll scare them into realizing how little they know, and how much more they have to do.

So yeah, right now I'm feeling confident, but trying not to let it get the better of me. All of the other times I've felt confident about this show something awful has happened. Keep your fingers crossed.

So, this weekend. It's been good. After my lovely rehearsal on Friday a bunch of my cast and I went to the bar, and ended up staying until it closed. We were joined by the casts of various other plays, and once the bar we were in closed, we went to the other bar on campus. Hanging out and chatting with old friends and new ones, being very geeky, singing songs from the Buffy musical and generally being drunk drama types. It was good fun.

While we were at this second bar, one of my new friends, Luke, started reciting this poem by Eleanor Brown, which i think is completely wonderful and hilarious, and which i want to memorize. Enjoy.

Bitcherel

You ask what I think of your new acquisition;

and since we are now to be 'friends',

I'll strive to the full to cement my position

with honesty. Dear - it depends.

It depends upon taste, which must not be disputed;

for which of us does understand

why some like their furnishings pallid and muted,

their cookery wholesome, but bland?

There isn't a law that a face should have features,

it's just that they generally do;

God couldn't give colour to all of his creatures,

and only gave wit to a few;

I'm sure she has qualities, much underrated,

that compensate amply for this,

along with a charm that is so understated

it's easy for people to miss.

And if there are some who choose clothing to flatter

what beauties they think they possess,

when what's underneath has no shape, does it matter

if there is no shape to the dress?

It's not that I think she is boring, precisely,

that isn't the word I would choose;

I know there are men who like girls who talk nicely

and always wear sensible shoes.

It's not that I think she is vapid and silly;

it's not that her voice makes me wince;

but - chilli con carne without any chilli

is only a plateful of mince...

Isn't that great? It makes me thing of someone in particular, but out of politeness I'm afraid i can't say who.

Yesterday i spent most of the day in bed, then went out and saw my housemate James's new sketch show, which was wonderful, and then went to the after party for that, which was at my friend Alex's house. Again, it was full of drunken drama people being geeks. I love my friends. Alex is the one who wrote the poems about me (which i posted about 2 years ago, go re-read them, they're awesome) and yesterday he read a new one that he wrote about my friend Rosemary, in which i have a supporting role. I'll get him to send a copy and post it up, I think you'll enjoy it.

Today I spent the day hungover, sitting in my favourite cafe, reading Susan Sontag's Notes on Camp, doing dissertation research and being given free coffee by a cute Scottish man. I'm writing an essay about how The Pirate, a Gene Kelly and Judy Garland musical, portrays a camp sensibility. So Much Fun! I'm spending this evening analyzing Gene in hotpants. I'm writing my final dissertation on camp, so i get to read all kinds of awesome essays that make me feel like a total geek (sitting in a corner with my massive glasses on, giggling to myself and muttering "oh Susan, you're such a card!").

Oh i do love my degree!



'cause I couldn’t make you love me and I’m tired of pulling your teeth.

I can't get enough of Richard Siken at the moment. Here's a taster, if you're interested.

Wishbone

You saved my life he says I owe you everything.
You don’t, I say, you don’t owe me squat, let’s just get going, let’s just get gone, but he’s
         relentless,
keeps saying I owe you, says Your shoes are filling with your own damn blood,
you must want something, just tell me, and it’s yours.
        But I can’t look at him, can hardly speak,

I took the bullet for all the wrong reasons, I’d just as soon kill you myself, I say.

You keep saying I owe you, I owe… but you say the same thing every time.
        Let’s not talk about it, let’s just not talk.
Not because I don’t believe it, not because I want it any different, but I’m always saving
and you’re always owing and I’m tired of asking to settle the debt.
        Don’t bother.
You never mean it anyway, not really, and it only makes me that much more ashamed.
There’s only one thing I want, don’t make me say it, just get me bandages, I’m bleeding,
        I’m not just making conversation.
There’s smashed glass glittering everywhere like stars. It’s a Western, Henry,
it’s a downright shoot-em-up. We’ve made a graveyard out of the bone white afternoon.
        It’s another wrong-man-dies scenario
and we keep doing it, Henry, keep saying until we get it right…
but we always win and we never quit, see, we’ve won again, here we are at the place
        where I get to beg for it
where I get to say Please, for just one night, will you lay down next to me, we can leave our
clothes on, we can stay all buttoned up?
or will I say
Roll over and let me fuck you till you puke, Henry, you owe me this much, you can indulge me
this at least, can’t you? but we both know how it goes. I say I want you inside me
        and you hold my head underwater, I say I want you inside me
and you split me open with a knife. I’m battling monsters, half-monkey, half-tarantula,
I’m pulling you out of the burning buildings and you say I’ll give you anything.
        But you never come through.
Give me bullet power. Give me power over angels. Even when you’re standing up
you look like you’re lying down, but will you let me kiss your neck, baby? Do I have to
        tie your arms down?
Do I have to stick my tongue in your mouth like the hand of a thief, like a burglary
like it’s just another petty theft? It makes me tired, Henry. Do you see what I mean?
        Do you see what I’m getting at?
You swallowing matches and suddenly I’m yelling Strike me. Strike anywhere.
I swear, I end up feeling empty, like you’ve taken something out of me, and I have to search
        my body for the scars, thinking
Did he find that one last tender place to sink his teeth in? I know you want me to say it, Henry,
it’s in the script, you want me to say Lie down on the bed, you’re all I ever wanted
        and worth dying for too
but I think I’d rather keep the bullet this time. It’s mine, you can’t have it, see,
I’m not giving it up. This way you still owe me, and that’s
        as good as anything.
You can’t get out of this one, Henry, you can’t get it out of me, and with this bullet
lodged in my chest, covered with your name, I will turn myself into a gun, because
        it’s all I have,
because I’m hungry and hollow and just want something to call my own. I’ll be your
slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this
        bullet inside me
‘cause I couldn’t make you love me and I’m tired of pulling your teeth. Don’t you see, it’s like
I’ve swallowed your house keys, and it feels so natural, like the bullet was already there,
        like it’s been waiting inside me the whole time.
Do you want it? Do you want anything I have? Will you throw me to the ground
like you mean it, reach inside and wrestle it out with your bare hands?
        If you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand.
Do you know how it ends? Do you feel lucky? Do you want to go home now?
There’s a bottle of whiskey in the trunk of the Chevy and a dead man at our feet
        staring up at us like we’re something interesting.

This is where the evening splits in half, Henry, love or death. Grab an end, pull hard,
and make a wish.

"You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and he won’t tell you that he loves you, but he loves you. And you feel like you’ve done something terrible, like robbed a liquor store, or swallowed pills, or shoveled yourself a grave in the dirt, and you’re tired. You’re in a car with a beautiful boy, and you’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling, but he reaches over and he touches you, like a prayer for which no words exist, and you feel your heart taking root in your body, like you’ve discovered something you didn’t even have a name for."

Veins into bendy straws

I'm completely in awe of this kid.





Ok, so, the experiment.
Basically, I've just cast my version of The Crucible, which is being performed in just over 9 weeks, and i thought I'd try and keep some sort of production diary charting the ups and downs, the stresses and triumphs, of the whole rehearsal process. So here goes.

First off I'll tell you about the audition process. I hate auditions. I cannot wait until I'm a big enough director that i can get a casting agent to do it for me. It is my least favourite part of the whole process. The thought of sitting in a room for 8 hours at a stretch, listening to the same speech over and over again and having to judge people puts me on edge. It's horrible when there are too many people and you have to not cast people who are good, but it's even worse when you don't have enough people audition. This thought keeps me awake at night. The hour before auditions start i can't be spoken to, I'm paralysed with terror in case no-one turns up. Normally my fears are completely unfounded and everything runs smoothly.

Normally.

Last week was the first round of auditions. The Crucible has a cast of 20. Over the 10 hours of auditions, spread out over 2 days, i had 21 people audition. I wept. There were some great people who auditioned, but not everyone who auditioned was good enough to cast. I re-called all but 2 of the people i saw. Then came the weekend, where i was at the catwalk show and couldn't focus on the play like i really needed to. I had to come up with some sort of solution. In re-reading the play i managed to cut out 3 characters without cutting any of the lines, and i booked some more auditions for Wednesday. I couldn't sleep on Saturday night because i had anxiety dreams about casting. My worst directorial fear was coming true.

On Monday were the recalls, and almost everyone performed very well. Monday evening was the director's meeting, where the directors of all the plays on this term come together and fight over actors. It all went surprisingly well, and i cast 10 out of my 17 roles. This meant that i had to find 7 people in my auditions on Wednesday, which were open to people who missed the auditions last week. Again, i didn't sleep because of anxiety dreams.

Wednesday came, and an hour after auditions opened i had only seen one person. I was on the brink of tears. Then people started showing up. Good people. I managed to cast the remaining roles without recalling, and started feeling slightly more confident. Booked rehearsal rooms and told people to meet this evening at 6 for the first read through.

So we get to today. The scripts which i ordered from amazon don't arrive, so my plans for a read through are scuppered and i have to come up with a rehearsal plan not remotely based on the text. At about 5:15pm, i get a text from an actress saying she can't be in the play. I try and remain calm, text message a girl i really wanted but couldn't place and offered her the role. I only hyperventilated for a minute. I wait in the common room and gradually the cast show up. They all think I'm crazy because I'm checking the time every two seconds and manically counting them to see if everyone is there.

We go into the rehearsal room and i explain that we have no scripts, and that i re-cast someone about half an hour before, and that we won't be doing a read through. Everyone seems understanding, excited and eager. We introduce ourselves and play some drama games. The cast seem to get on well and respond to the exercises, but are slightly unfocused and chatty. I put it down to nerves. Rather than play generic icebreaker games which aren't particularly productive in translation to performance, i chose exercises from physical theatre, getting people thinking about proximity, contact and movement, as well as hopefully breaking down inhibitions. Ideally playing these on their first meeting will mean that when we come to the read through tomorrow the cast will be less nervous in front of each other and really willing to go for it.

All in all I'm pretty happy with how today went, and much more relaxed about the whole process than i was when i woke up this morning. Feeling quietly optimistic.
Bring on the read through.

You are so beautiful to me.

Learn it by heart and repeat it daily.



That is how I feel about all of you.

Smile.

I do not see you but love you blindly

How exactly have a lived 21 years and studied English in some form for 17 of them and never read one of Pablo Neruda's poems before?
It is an outrage.
Anyway, he kept me up till 3 last night, and i have to share some of my favourites with you. They are love poems, but not the romantic dross we studied in "Aspects of Literary History." This isn't Wordsworth, with his weak rhymes about flowers. These poems are alive.

I Crave Your Mouth, Your Voice, Your Hair

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.

Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.

Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day

I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,

your hands the color of a savage harvest,

hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,

the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,

I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,

hunting for you, for your hot heart,

like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

These next 2 are my favourites i think.
 

Don't Go Far Off, Not Even For A Day

 

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because --

because -- I don't know how to say it: a day is long

and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station

when the trains are parked off somewhere else, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because

then the little drops of anguish will all run together,

the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift

into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;

may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.

Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far

I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,

Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You

I do not love you except because I love you;

I go from loving to not loving you,

From waiting to not waiting for you

My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love;

I hate you deeply, and hating you

Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you

Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume

My heart with its cruel

Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who

Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,

Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

Why don't they teach poetry like this at school? William Blake can take a hike. As far as i'm concerned there's no comparison between the two.

Lucy Lament

I asked my friend Alex to write me another poem, maybe because i'm starved for attention, or maybe because i (secretly) love what he writes (though i still hate it when he recites them at parties, that will never be cool honey!)
Anyway, he wrote this one, and i think it's really beautiful, it actually brought a tear to my eye.
See what you think.

Lucy Lament

I’m off over here,
And she’s out by the sea,
I’m not over her,
And she’s not under me,

Think back to when the music died,
We choked among the herd,
And tried, with numbing nostrils fried,
To forfeit our reserve,

We fall upon the fading floor,
While rockers round us roll,
With their rotten, raging, roasting roar,
All their loosing is control,

I’m lying on the grass,
With my head up in the sky,
I reach out for the stars,
And they fail to reply,

Sometimes she’s an extra mile,
And then I find her gone,
Sometimes, when she’s lost her smile,
I like to paint it on,

I wouldn’t want to chaser,
If she didn’t make me run,
And when I really face her,
Well, that takes out all the fun,

But, wait, she turns and faces me,
She lingers on her lips,
In shock this siren places me,
My tortured tongue; it trips,

I meant that roses are often red,
And violets rather blue,
But, instead, I lost my head,
And offer some to you,

The conversation crumbles,
I’m just another perv,
The risqué retard stumbles,
Which is less than I deserve,

When I call out to her,
She walks away from me,
I’m caught over here,
And she’s off by the sea.

Isn't it lovely? Alex Whyman, remember the name, future poet laureat right there.

The Fair Youth

So back in October my friend Alex wrot me a poem, which was lovely, if a little on the dirty side. I've been mocking him recently because it seems the only things he ever reads out that he has written are kind of in the same vein, so he set himself the chllenge of writing me a sonnet. Something clean and nice and sweet insted of perverse. He started writing it while we were in the pub. Here's the finished thing.

The Fair Youth

She dresses like she works for sugaRAPE,
And she confuses me most of the time,
Laughs like Muttley, Smirks like a Pirate,
But this short-haired pixie that makes me rhyme,
Intrigues me more than any catwalk bint,
Could ever hope to catch my wandering eye,
Without her foulness and her cheeky glint,
Those throat-drying legs that make my soul sigh,
Wears her hair how she wants- she wears it well,
Flirts like a sailor and swears like one too,
This fire in my heart I’ve no wish to quell,
When butterflies squirm at her wolf-dance moves,
Some call it her style, but I call it art,
I lost my mind, and she stole my heart.

Isn't it lovely? (for any of you that don't know, sugaRAPE is a made up magazine from Nathan Brley, an awesome comedy show from a couple of years ago.)
It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.
Happy Easter weekend.
x

The dog was created specially for children. He is a god of frolic. - Henry Ward Beecher

Dad just sent me this poem, and i think it's pretty nice, so i thought i'd share it.

The Power of the Dog

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie--
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.
When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find--it's your own affair--
But...you've given your heart for a dog to tear.
When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!);
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart for the dog to tear.
We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long--
So why in Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

Yeah, Wilf was a god of frolic, no doubt.
Woof.

Write club, Je convoite pour vous

Last week at open mike night, my friend Alex performed a rap about how he wished he was Jewish, and a rather racy love poem, for which he requested a 2 syllable name from the audience. I Yelled mine out and he performed the poem to me, which was hilarious if slightly embarrassing. Afterwards i thanked him, and he said that one day he would write me an original. Fast forward to last night at Write club, a society for writers of short fiction and poetry which we both attend, and he stands up, explains what happened at open mike night, and tells the group that he's written that original poem just for me.
Here is the poem, which i heard for the first time in front of about 25 people, most of whom i don't know. It was one of the most embarrassing and hilarious moments of my life thus far.

When I saw the one called Lucy,
How I wished she would seduce me,
Kiss me with those Thurman lips,
Straddle me with those Hayek hips,
Thinking of her, one on one,
Late at night, I’ve had my fun,
Down I go like the setting sun,
I can’t wait to make her – Whoa!
A little soon, I would say so,
This Lucy girl, she is no whore…

…Her homemade dress falls on my floor,
Dammit, I’m a man undone!
It’s a little weird for everyone,
First I rap ‘bout Judaism,
Now I’m rhyming ‘bout my jism,
Sorry all for all this filth,
It’s her that mused me! Blame the lilf,

Anyway, back to the song,
In all its many shades of wrong,
This Lucy makes my heartbeat restless,
Her Seberg body leaves me breathless,
I know that I’m no Michael Cera,
And that this poem will prob’ly scare her,
But I’m a cheeky little fuck,
And so I hope with any luck,
She’ll break my post-poetical tension,
Satisfy my crude intention,
See my spritely smiling face,
And let me get to second base.

I absolutely love it, and have a copy posted up above my desk. I especially like that details of our conversation last week have found their way in, like how i was wearing a dress i made myself, that i love Jean Seberg and kind of want to be her in Breathless, and that i have a deep and enduring love of Micheal Cera. Utter genius!

Preludes

In my opinion this is one of the most beautiful poems ever written, and the reason i love T.S. Eliot. Enjoy.

The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.

The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.

You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.

His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

Poem, affirmation

I came across this poem while i was geeking out on poets.org, a really cool site which has recordings of poets reading their poems, including Ginsberg reading Howl and Eliot reading the first poem he ever got published.
I loved this poem when i read it, but the poet reading it changed the meaning and i liked it less, so instead of posting the link and exposing you to that, i'm just copying the poem, so you can make up your own mind about how it should be read. Enjoy.

What Women Want


I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.

Kim Addonizio

I definately know the feeling she's talking about. What do you think?