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roc…

We are come late to the love of birds
for we are come late to love.

Before we had been nothing:
a fossilized egg, a tired metaphor, old as mutton.

Now, the sharp twinge of middle age
and we are caught in love’s punctured balloon.

In banana peel sobriety.
Furred epithet, feathered lash.

We are come late to the mythology of love,
the beefheart stain of the great winged roc

upon the ground of our imaginings,
soft like the centres of some candies.

Soft like the quilted centres of our beds,
our quivering bird organs.

Give us the sweeping shadow,
down from the mountains of Araby.

Give us the claws that catch
us from the desert path, swoop us,

fat white sheep in the meadow,
into that prickled nest, high, up high.

roc

 

 

 

 

 

— Sandra Kasturi —

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pun intended…

Sometimes I insert us into porn photos and videos I see.
I like to think of you enjoying me.
I like to hear your breath in my ear – the sounds you make
when touching me pleases you more than you have words for.

 

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letters to a young poet…

To love is good, too: love being difficult. For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation. For this reason young people, who are beginners in everything, cannot yet know love: they have to learn it. With their whole being, with all their forces, gathered close about their lonely, timid, upward-beating heart, they must learn to love. But learning-time is always a long, secluded time, and so loving, for a long while ahead and far on into life, is — solitude, intensified and deepened loneness for him who loves. Love is at first not anything that means merging, giving over, and uniting with another (for what would a union be of something unclarified and unfinished, still subordinate — ?), it is a high inducement to the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world for himself for another’s sake, it is a great exacting claim upon him, something that chooses him out and calls him to vast things.

                                                                                                                   — Rilke

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a poem without a single bird in it…

a poem without a single bird in it

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What will I say to you, darling,
When you ask me for help?
I do not know the future.
Or even what poetry,
We are going to write.
Commit suicide. Go mad. Better people
Than either of us have tried it.
I loved you once but,
I do not know the future.
I only know that I love strength in my friends.
And greatness.
And hate the way the body cracks,
And is eaten by images.
The fun’s over. The picnic’s over.
Commit suicide. Go mad. There will be nothing left
After we die or go mad… but the calmness of poetry

And love.

— Jack Spicer —

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a life in letters…

You are so dear, so wonderful. I think of you all day long, and miss your grace, your… beauty, the bright sword-play of your wit, the delicate fancy of your genius, so surprising always in its sudden swallow-flights towards north and south, towards sun and moon — and, above all, yourself.

— Oscar Wilde —

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mírame…

I recently read that there is no greater intimacy then to hold your lover’s eyes as you cum. I believe this to be true. The trick is to find another who is brave enough to bear such beauty in their soul… this light called Hope.

mírame