Tag Archives: sonnet

one-girl outlaw

18 Monday Feb 2013

Posted by in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , , , , ,

spirit daughter of oya

spirit daughter of oya

* * *

I’ve seen willowy women before but
she was different. More barky with green sap.
There is a tale of a female bandit,
our one-girl outlaw, who had the mishap
to see Oya (she of the black horse tail
and the swirling skirts that cause hurricanes)
undressing. Oya is more than female,
more than male. She is both, neither. She trains
Yoruba women in the art of war.
Some say Oya turned the one-girl outlaw
into a tree, which I doubt, since others
say the girl died in Lokoja’s bazaar
due to a hex. I’ve been to Lokoja,
that makes sense. It’s a city of horrors.

* * *

Notes:

Lokoja is located in central Nigeria, a port city on the Niger river.

Oya is a West African goddess of war, cemetery gates and personification of the Niger River.

what i saw

18 Monday Feb 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on what i saw

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

 

Was there blood. I didn’t know what I saw.
My breath gurgled down deep inside my chest.

I saw — what. First time you unclasped your bra
for me, your nephew, I saw your right breast,

upturned, beads of sweat dripping down. First time
you pulled your jeans around your knees I saw

your tight parted curls that tasted of thyme,
amber and lust under my tongue. Cat’s paw

tattoo, clit ring, missing toe. I saw all
of this. But now blood. Everywhere on me.

My blood. “What happened?” I whispered. But you
silenced me with your lips. My breath: a small

rusty gasp. “I am here to set you free,
naughty boy,” she said. “My foolish nephew.”

gran tabú

17 Sunday Feb 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Lilith, Poetry, sonnet, video

≈ Comments Off on gran tabú

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

I knew you way back when you had owl feet
and dry breasts. Then you married that bastard

Adam and it all went to hell. Discreet
sex while you were married was fun. I heard

what they said about you. It’s like when they
go on about Yeshua; they’re clueless,
aren’t they? fucking clueless. You’re made from clay?
my ass. Only mud pies come from that mess.
Mud pies and goleems. Liliti, you flew
to the Red Sea to get away. You knew
they would never leave a howling taboo

alone. Gran tabú: like when you told me

about Adam, the pig, getting ready

to cum all over his “little wifey.”

* * *

nothing worries the dead

16 Saturday Feb 2013

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on nothing worries the dead

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

Tell me. You have gone to where I cannot

follow, not yet. Tell me, are there grackles?
I love their iridescent black, their squat
bodies, their ill natures. Their song rankles
and cracks but they do not fear me when I
am near. Are there meadows where the streams glide?
where the moon shines on the hill, the firefly

and the ladybug? Did you have a guide
to get you there? Dante did. Yes, I know

I ask so much. Worried, I guess. We said
it would be all different, like a mellow
groove-in; that nothing can worry the dead.

Tell me, are you still waking up nervous?

Are there still wretched nights and loneliness?

the things that still haunt me

16 Saturday Feb 2013

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on the things that still haunt me

Tags

, , , , , , , , , ,

for Nadia Anjuman, ‘Asma’ bint Marwan, Pat Lowther, Delmira Agustini, Ayat al-Ghermezi, Ayman Udas, Susana Chavez, Isabella Morra and all other poets and writers murdered by their husbands, their communities, their family and kin.

Her poems? I will never know them,
though they are the ones I most need.
— Jane Hirshfield, “The Poet”

We sit out in the dirt before the gates
of the kingdom of drudgery. We want

to get in. Believe me, there are worse fates
than soul-crushing work. The things that still haunt
me starved me. Now my body is wasted.

At least my body is still mine. Secrets
only bring me grief, like my arms, scalded
from the splattering cooking oil. Prophets
remind us of death and rebirth, as if.

Go read Nadia Anjuman’s poem,
“I wail.” Wail: she was killed for that. Dreaming

still kills; still grinds us down over a whiff
from where our poets hang. How to condemn
this? I want poetry that does something.

unfit

16 Saturday Feb 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on unfit

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

 

They say that the cruel one must now depart
at dawn. Come back to bed, love. I’ve been cruel
but not like that. I am shallow. My heart
knows that it will be judged by the jackal
headed god Anubis one day. “Unfit;”
I am sure that will be what I am told.
“Unfit” gets you consumed by vile Ammit,
the soul-eater. Tomorrow I’ll be cold
as a crypt. Tonight, though, I burn. Stay here.
They say you can’t get to heaven depraved.
What’s a bruise? a bite? I’ll mark your flesh mine.
And then what comes between us I will smear
across your face. I don’t care to be saved.
Damnation is also an act divine.

* * *

Note:

Anibus is the jackal-headed god associated with mummification and the afterlife in ancient Egyptian religion.

Ammit is a funerary deity, a female demon in ancient Egypt; part lion, part hippopotamus and part crocodile. Her titles included, “Devourer of the Dead,” “Eater of Hearts” and “Great of Death.” Her job was eating souls judged by Anibus as corrupt.

all for naught

16 Saturday Feb 2013

Posted by in Poetry, sonnet

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

It’s not the need that I find bewitching,
anyone can be a junkie. It’s when
the need no longer works. Upon rising,
finding that one needs to feed yet again.
Finding that the need has not abated.
That the old shit just doesn’t work today.
That is panic. Everything you snorted,
consumed, and (the Devil will have her say)
infested, but all for naught. That is work.
That is irony. Of course the fallen
appear pleasing when we tell our story,
we are clueless. We’ve don’t know that berserk
rage when it fails. Talk about damnation:
stuck at romanticizing the junkie.

a long moan of a word

15 Friday Feb 2013

Posted by in Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

"erica jong, 1971" collage work (2013)

“erica jong, 1971” collage work (2013)

I.
Dear Erica. You said, “woman’s a long
moan of a word with a man in it.” Damn.
Girl, I pronounce girl, “vrouw die.” That strong
Dutch word that ends in murder. Like a gram
of coke, it is how we use it that counts.

II.
Like fire storm whirlwinds. Like The Madonna
of Blood, who serves up slaughter by the ounce.
We’re all guilty of myth-making. Mama

III.
Poet, your daughters wander this dream world.
I’ve seen them (not once with a man inside).
Dreaming is all I’m good at. Demeter
went to hell for her daughter, found her curled
in the pit. I want to wake up. I’ve tried.
I’ve tried. Anything for my big sister.

* * *

Notes:

* Erica Jong is an American author, known for her works, Fear of Flying, Shylock’s Daughter and Seducing the Demon. We all must give praise to our literary matriarchs, as it were. Without her book Fruits & Vegetables paving the way I would not be writing what I write today. It is as simple as that.

* According to Google translate, the word “girl” can be rendered “vrouw die.” So they say.

that’s enough for me

15 Friday Feb 2013

Posted by in Illustration and art, Poetry, self-portrait, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on that’s enough for me

Tags

, , , , , , , , ,

putney in wintertime.

putney in wintertime.

London and a diet of shrimp curry,
Southern Comfort, hashish; I can recall
my poor hip pressed up against your icy

wall. We spooned all “winta.” Your Gravesend drawl
made me giggle. We loved Aladdin Sane.

I won’t list faults. Complaining kinda blows.

Why should I complain about love? Complain
it did not work? As if no beasts, heroes,
singers or thinkers ever once fucked up.

We don’t talk about redheaded witchcraft
or She Who Cannot Be Named. Talk is cheap.

Betrayal poems cheaper. I’m grown up.
You’re dead … so what? Once you told me you laughed
with joy as I lay in your arms, asleep.

thirsty beasts

15 Friday Feb 2013

Posted by in Erotic, Illustration and art, Poetry, sonnet

≈ Comments Off on thirsty beasts

Tags

, , , , , , , ,

thirsty beasts

They were at Mina’s door, with “cocu geste,”
deceived fury; they found the Count, smiling,
sitting on her bed, dazed, tousled, bare chest
pressed to her lips. She, carnivore, drinking,
took her fill. The world is full of unknown,
thirsty beasts; Victorian men were blind
to their own. Ask the maid, mother and crone.
Ask those who love and have been loved. Mankind
with its syphilis and brothels ruins it
for the rest of us. Mina soon declared
she was “unclean” and vowed never to “kiss”
another man. The virus we transmit
might damn us. Yet, as with all blood, love shared
between us, brings such ambrosian bliss.