| (no subject) |
[Jul. 29th, 2004|07:53 pm] |
| [ | internal |
| |  peaceful | ] |
| [ | external |
| | war | ] |
This journal is now locked. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Nov. 7th, 2003|05:37 am] |
Carrowmore
(by Lucie Brock-Broido)
All about Carrowmore the lambs
Were blotched blue, belonging.
They were waiting for carnage or
Snuff. This is why they are born
To begin with, to end.
Ruminants do not frighten
At anything— gorge in the soil, butcher
Noise, the mere graze of predators.
All about Carrowmore
The rain quells for three days.
I remember how cold I was, the botched
Job of travelling. And just so.
Wherever I went I came with me.
She buried her bone barette
In the ground’s wooly shaft
A tear of her hair, an old gift
To the burnt other who went
First. My thick braid, my ornament—
My belonging I
Remember how cold I will be.
Footnotes from back of book:
Carrowmore is a megalithic cemetery outside Sligo, Ireland. Mnay of the neglected monuments, some dating back to 4000 BC, have been partially destroyed, but three well-preserved dolmens & a rough stone circle still remain. The cremated remains of the land’s original inhabitants are buried there, marked by the circumference of the stones. |
|
|
| assignment number 2 |
[Nov. 7th, 2003|05:33 am] |
Arabian Stud
(By Camille Roy)
War party. I brought my knife.
We drank to anger, skill set collapse,
to the end of liberalism.
I felt fleshy & full of intelligence,
ready for a long ride on an Arabian stud.
..the aroma of horse is a backdrop of our culture...
Her thudded leg split open
twice, over rain... it was a shame.
“What is shame,
but the suddenly realized weight of the visible?”
Tissues torn off that Coarsened stub
as Word after word slid down the throats of the Confederates.
Error of terror, that eye
swallowing--
All stand, scared but ready,
in case the dirt bunnies expectorate.
The past is eaten by the future and becomes
futuristic cannonball.
The present, intolerable melting,
while pimping the country
to his rich friends.
War, I mean. menace. me mean. men.
When I purchased my knife, I bought the idea.
Now I hide it in my name.
“Zone of entry into eroded life,
she’s stuck on the tip of
culture, as it dries up & blows
away.” Blow.
All the needles in the forest
dipped in cocaine.
My wooden moods, with clogs:
start there, the terrific saturation of the hitch point.
But I wonder what a poem is,
floating off like this, into its own idleness,
while I stroll around and look,
tourist in my own poetics.
BAM BAM BAM.
If I lay down my resemblance, would it flow from me into all these objects?
Past tense pushes out into my language like the ghost.
Past: that girlish brainiac childhood.
The plump world holds me up,
its shine elsewhere. |
|
|
| navigation |
| [ |
viewing |
| |
most recent entries |
] |
| |
|
|
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
recallellair's journal