Good poetry gives / the gift of bafflement. Good / poetry gives covetousness / and makes me jealous.
LIVING MY GAP YEAR
Filtering by Category: Poems on the Go
Unfortunately, the sun does not hit / this side of the building. / I would never get an apartment if / the sun did not hit its / side of the building / in the morning.
Taking Off over the Sea of Marmara:
There's sunlight on stray hairs / and the tip of my nose. / Being tugged back in my seat / is a good feeling / by the starting of the plane / and thank god I'm not throwing up any more.
And there will be days, / days enough for you's and I's to / take the mornings open-eyed / with hair outstretched across the pillow. Beginnings / measured in sun slants.
This is just to say / I don't think I'll ever / touch food again / cause hunger is delicious / so sweet and / so cold / and nourishment is cloying.
8 hours on a plane / is as long as a night. / The darkness like a tunnel before you / and the lights of so many you's and / me's / and our screens.
Last day of January, / grasping the hours / that inch. / Will we learn to live / without moaning our living? / Oh, these gyrations / of the sleepless mind.
There's Christmas / and nostalgic me / Heaving meaning from / a day. Our table / in the sun.
I collect beds and morning windows / Savor the fleeting moments / of ordinary glory: / the way things look before we leave them.
There are so many ways / to love life / but the best is to sleep / well / because tiredness loves nothing, and sees only shadow where there's a warm spot..
To be / in the morning / when it's at its / lightest, brightest, mightiest, prettiest, / is to bathe in / a droplet of heaven.
The post-vacation depression perseveres. It's a subtle awareness of the fact that that euphoric, unimpeachable, near-perfect existence we experience at the house "Faraway" lasts only a week and then vanishes irrevocably for the rest of the year. One week- out of the entire year of 52 weeks- for pure bliss. Oh, how I love Lake Doolittle. Oh, how I want it when I wake up this morning.
There is a me here, / but there is no / slapping, smacking water here, / no silent, silky / water here, / no sweet submergence / and green and green and green and green...
I landed here / as the sun rose / and take off now / as the sun sets. / I am a day. Was I used well?
It happened once with the air on a plane / that I breathed it in too hard / and it got caught / sharp and dry / in my pinhole nostrils / like lego blocks. / Ow ow ow ow.
Dear Nicolai, / enjoy the orange tree / while you have it. / The oranges on it / are so sweet and / ripe, but / beware of / the bird shit / on them.
This is a Special Edition Postcard Poem (do you feel fancy?) that is inscribed on, instead of a postcard, the back of a bag that I got two round truffles in from an artisan chocolatier booth at a market in Santiago. I loved the chocolates (I mean, do I even have to say that? "chocolate" and "love" in the same sentence is already redundant), but I loved the actual bag just as much! Well, almost as much... At any rate, chocolate was gone instantaneously, bag remained. Bag inspired poem. Poem became special edition. Special edition became a run-on intro that you probably stopped reading a few sentences ago. So I'll leave you to it. Bon appetit!
I love a little / bag of chocolate / even if it doesn't / have any chocolate / in it. It is / small and white and / crackles deliciously / and I love it. / Paper love, / and I love it.
How bad do you / have to want a poem / for it not to / want you?
The best way to remember a thing / is never writing it down. / Words will only clog the / thinking mold and / stop the dreams from passing. / Listen instead- / be minute. / Have and eardrum now / pressed to the dawn.
Wait- / I want to / feel you / feel my / brow / and tell me I'm not / impassioned.
I want to rent / a room within / the walls of art / and tread daily / the planks / of beauty / even if they do give splinters / sometimes.