Leaving is Not Enough - Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell

Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell

Leaving is not enough; you must
stay gone. Train your heart
like a dog. Change the locks
even on the house he’s never
visited. You lucky, lucky girl.
You have an apartment
just your size. A bathtub
full of tea. A heart the size
of Arizona, but not nearly
so arid. Don’t wish away
your cracked past, your crooked
toes; your problems
are papier mache puppets
you made or bought
because the vendor was so
compelling you just
had to have them. You had
to have him. And you did.
And now you pull down
the bridge between your houses.
You make him call before
he visits. You take a lover
for granted, you take
a lover who looks at you
like maybe you are magic. Make
the first bottle you consume
in this place a relic. Place it
on whatever altar you fashion
with a knife and five cranberries.
Don’t lose too much weight.
Stupid girls are always trying
to disappear as revenge. And you
are not stupid. You loved a man
with more hands than a parade
of beggars, and here you stand. Heart
like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas.
Heart leaking something so strong
they can smell it in the street.

By Marty McConnell

~×~×~×~

Wow... 

all that by Charles Bukowski

all that

by Charles Bukowski

the only things I remember about
New York City
in the summer
are the fire escapes
and how the people go
out on the fire escapes
in the evening
when the sun is setting
on the other side
of the buildings
and some stretch out
and sleep there
while others sit quietly
where it’s cool.

and on many
of the window sills
sit pots of geraniums or
planters filled with red
geraniums
and the half-dressed people
rest there
on the fire escapes
and there are
red geraniums
everywhere.

this is really
something to see rather
than to talk about.

it’s like a great colorful
and surprising painting
not hanging anywhere
else.

“all that” by Charles Bukowski from Open All Night. 

Charles Wright, Extraordinary Poet

Got a used first edition in perfect shape.  Thank God for used books.

 

As often happens with magnificent poetry, I wanted to burn everything I'd written after reading this book, especially the title poem, "Buffalo Yoga".  Holy, holy, holy.  Thank you, Erin (you were so right about this poem...should be read aloud), for introducing me to this poet.  There is no joy better than discovering a new poet, especially through a friend.  I owe you one.  :-)

 

 

 

My good book karma continues with this book which I got in the mail today.  I ordered a used copy from Amazon and ended up with a pristeen, AUTOGRAPHED copy of this book.  I laugh because this happens all the time...it's part of the mystique of buying used books.  You never know what you'll get: love notes, autographs, photographs, bookmarks, more notes...I love them all.

 

I can only say this today:  READ CHARLES WRIGHT's POETRY!

 

I tried and tried to pick out a poem to share, but I couldn't make up my mind.  "Buffalo Yoga" is a long, delicious poem and I couldn't break out a piece no more than I can cut a piece of the sky.  So I looked around and found this slice of a poem from his poem titled, "Polaroids".  Of course, I was immediately drawn to the dragonfly imagery in the last verse...  Enjoy.

 

xo,

Marion

 

=============================

 

From:  POLAROIDS by Charles Wright

 

The lapis lazuli dragonflies

                                             of postbelief, rising and falling near
The broken slab wood steps, now one by one, now in pairs,
Are not the dragonflies of death with their blue-black eyes.
These are the tiny ones, the stems, the phosphorescent,
Rising and falling like drowned playthings.
They come and they disappear. They come back and they disappear.

Horizon-hump of pine bristles on end toward the south,
Breath-stealer, cloudless drop cloth
Of sky,
             the great meadow beneath like a mirror face down in the earth,
Accepting nothing, giving it back.
We’ll go, as Mandelstam tells us, into a growing numbness of time,
Insoluble, as long as landscape, as indistinct.

==============================

*Osip Emilyevich Mandelstam (1891 - 1938) was a Russian poet and essayist who lived in Russia during and after its revolution and the rise of the Soviet Union. He was one of the foremost members of the Acmeist school of poets.