Wednesday, May 27, 2015

Hesitations Outside the Door - Margaret Atwood

           Art Nouveau door in Paris

--------------------------------------------

HESITATIONS OUTSIDE THE DOOR 
By Margaret Atwood

I'm telling the wrong lies,
they are not even useful.

The right lies would at least
be keys, they would open the door.

The door is closed; the chairs,
the tables, the steel bowl, myself

shaping bread in the kitchen, wait
outside it.

-----------------

Rain, rain and more rain...and a little less pain... It's been raining for months, it seems. My prayers go out to the people in Texas who've experienced such loss from recent flooding. I can deal with the giant mosquitoes, the fleas, the high grass, the lushness. It's all a door---an exit or an entry to what's coming next. Bring it on. xo

Monday, May 25, 2015

Color & The Absence of Color

A big, fat book jumped off my top bookshelf & hit my bare foot. Color...

My Gardenia bush made one flower this year. Can you smell the intoxicating scent? Colorless...

My first 2015 dragonfly photo & she's a magically delightful rare blue & green. Color...

Passionflowers, minus the purple passion. Colorless...

Passionflower and an unopened blossom in late afternoon sunlight. Color...

Colorless...




Thursday, May 21, 2015

Monday, May 18, 2015

Dragonfly Lady by Marion For Mag 270



DRAGONFLY LADY
By Marion

I'll be your dragonfly lady
and you be my fairy tale King.
We'll rule the daisies & dance
while the raindrops glisten & sing.

When the moon comes 'round
and the moonflowers bloom
glowing silver and scented of night---
Step into my magic circle of mushrooms

We'll touch the stars & take flight.  

5/18/15

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Boycott Author Toni Morrison

I despise racism in any form. That's why I've burned every novel I owned by Toni Morrison. I will never recommend them to my family or friends again.  The answer to racism is not hatred!

To wish a person dead merely on the basis of their race is the most vile, inhuman, horrific thing a person can say.  Toni Morrison is a racist. Had a person of any other race said the following words, they would have been shamed and vilified.  SHAME ON YOU, TONI MORRISON.  I am seriously sad and disappointed in you as a human being I used to look up to!

"Nobel and Pulitzer Prize winning author Toni Morrison took a harsh view on the issue of racial disparities in the justice system during a recent interview.

“People keep saying, ‘We need to have a conversation about race,” Morrison, 84, told The (U.K.) Telegraph.

“This is the conversation. I want to see a cop shoot a white unarmed teenager in the back,” Morrison said. “And I want to see a white man convicted for raping a black woman. Then when you ask me, ‘Is it over?’, I will say yes.”  ~The Guardian, April 20, 2015


Saturday, April 25, 2015

The Language of The Brag By Sharon Olds


This poem has been floating around in my head all day today and I haven't posted it in a couple of years so it's due a rerun.  It's had over 4,000 views, so others must love it, too.  Enjoy! ~Marion


THE LANGUAGE OF THE BRAG
By Sharon Olds

I have wanted excellence in the knife-throw,
I have wanted to use my exceptionally strong and accurate arms
and my straight posture and quick electric muscles
to achieve something at the centre of a crowd,
the blade piercing the bark deep,
the haft slowly and heavily vibrating like the cock.

I have wanted some epic use for my excellent body,
some heroism, some American achievement
beyond the ordinary for my extraordinary self,
magnetic and tensile, I have stood by the sandlot
and watched the boys play.

I have wanted courage, I have thought about fire
and the crossing of waterfalls, I have dragged around

my belly big with cowardice and safely,
my stool black with iron pills,
my huge breasts oozing mucus,
my legs swelling, my hands swelling,
my face swelling and darkening, my hair
falling out, my inner sex
stabbed again and again with terrible pain like a knife.
I have lain down.
I have lain down and sweated and shaken
and passed blood and feces and water and
slowly alone in the centre of a circle I have
passed the new person out
and they have lifted the new person free of the act
and wiped the new person free of that
language of blood like praise all over the body.

I have done what you wanted to do, Walt Whitman,
Allen Ginsberg, I have done this thing,

I and the other women this exceptional
act with the exceptional heroic body,
this giving birth, this glistening verb,
and I am putting my proud American boast
right here with the others.

"The Language of the Brag" is from SATAN SAYS by Sharon Olds.
Copyright © 1980

Friday, April 24, 2015

P A I N - P O E M By Marion

Etymology of the word PAIN:  First attested in English in 1297, the word peyn comes from the Old French peine, in turn from Latin poena meaning "punishment, penalty" (in L.L. also meaning "torment, hardship, suffering") and that from Greek ποινή (poine), generally meaning "price paid, penalty, punishment".  It also exists in Frisian as "pine" which in turn is related to the English verb "to pine" which means to long for. - From Wikipedia

PAIN NOTES
By Marion

Just when I think I cannot stand one more molecule
of pain, physical or otherwise,
along comes a motherfucking
cold hearted, empathy-impaired doctor
with sharp needles in hand & lies foaming down his chin:
'This will sting a little' he says as he inserts said needle into
the most sensitive part of any woman's life.

Then he carelessly lets fall the word, biopsy,
barely pausing to rip not one, but two slices
of my aching, brittle soul from the bone.
(Fuck yeah, it's connected!)
No kind of anesthesia offered, local or otherwise.
I hear heart-rending sobs & a horrifying scream (mine)
as he twice punctures my severely inflamed, infected body, saying
'Why are you screamingthisshouldnothurt?' WhatTheFuck, I want to
say but I'm too horrified/blindsided by the ferocious, fiery, searing pain
where only pleasure should abide...

I can't breathe, I want to hide
but I just hiccup & cry---not even a tissue
or sympathetic smile offered from the coldly watching nurse.
I stare at the water-spotted ceiling,
my legs violently trembling
& wipe my tears on my sleeve
& watch the doctor leave
me sobbing & sitting
in a gathering pool
of bright red
blood.

April 21, 2015

____________________

Psychogenic pain, also called psychalgia or somatoform pain, is pain caused, increased, or prolonged by mental, emotional, or behavioral factors.

Sufferers are often stigmatized, because both medical professionals and the general public tend to think that pain from a psychological source is not "real".

However, specialists consider that it is no less actual or hurtful than pain from any other source.

A 2010 study published in the Journal of Neurophysiology revealed that emotional and physical pain share neural pathways in the brain.

Self-esteem, often low in chronic pain patients, also shows improvement once pain has resolved.

Pain motivates the individual to withdraw from damaging situations, to protect a damaged body part while it heals, and to avoid similar experiences in the future.

Sometimes pain persists despite removal of the stimulus and apparent healing of the body; and sometimes pain arises in the absence of any detectable stimulus, damage or disease.

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

My Mama Moved Among the Days by Lucille Clifton

My Mama Moved Among the Days
By Lucille Clifton

My Mama moved among the days
like a dreamwalker in a field;
seemed like what she touched was here
seemed like what touched her couldn't hold,
she got us almost through the high grass
then seemed like she turned around and ran
right back in
right back on in 

-----------------------

Spring
By Edna St. Vincent Millay

To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

Monday, April 20, 2015

Nick Cave, My Muse, Has New Book Out



#AmReading #Poetry

"The Sick Bag Song" by Nick Cave. Unique, shimmering, simmering poetry/prose as light as a moonless night & dark as the sun at noon.  Soul food for the poetheart & relief for the pain of living.

Excerpt from the chapter, "Nashville":

“A young boy climbs a riverbank. He steps onto a railway bridge. He is twelve years old.
He kneels down, under a harsh sun, and puts his ear to the track. The track does not vibrate. There is no train approaching around the bend on the other side of the river.

The boy starts to run along the tracks. He arrives in the middle of the bridge. He stands on the edge and looks down at the muddy river below.

On the left side is a concrete pylon that supports the bridge. On the right, a half-felled tree lies across the river, its branches sticking out into the dark water. In between there is a small space about four feet wide.

He has been told that it is possible to jump in at this point, but he cannot be sure, as he has never seen anybody do it.

The stones beneath his feet begin to tremble. He crouches down and again he puts his ear to the track.

The track begins to vibrate. The train is coming.

He stares down at the dark, muddy water, his heart pounding.”

“The boy does not realise that he is not a boy at all, but rather the memory of a boy.

He is the memory of a boy running through the mind of a man in a suite at the Sheraton Hotel in downtown Nashville, Tennessee, who is being injected in the thigh with a steroid shot that will transform the jet-lagged, flu-ridden singer into a deity.

In three hours he will burst from the hotel room. He will move through the empty city, crossing vast rivers, driving through empty prairies, along tremendous, multi-laned highways, under darkening skies, like a small god, to be with you, tonight.”


Excerpt From: Nick Cave's excellent new book, "The Sick Bag Song". Canongate Books Ltd. iBooks.