dayjah-richardson - Hello Poetry

Sep 15, 2014

Sep 15, 2014 at 1:09 PM UTC

I watched the Moon around the House

629 I watched the Moon around the House Until upon a Pane— She stopped—a Traveller’s privilege—for Rest— And there upon I gazed—as at a stranger— The Lady in the Town Doth think no incivility To lift her Glass—upon— But never Stranger justified The Curiosity Like Mine—for not a Foot—nor Hand— Nor Formula—had she— But like a Head—a Guillotine Slid carelessly away— Did independent, Amber— Sustain her in the sky— Or like a Stemless Flower— Upheld in rolling Air By finer Gravitations— Than bind Philosopher— No Hunger—had she—nor an Inn— Her Toilette—to suffice— Nor Avocation—nor Concern For little Mysteries As harass us—like Life—and Death— And Afterwards—or Nay— But seemed engrossed to Absolute— With shining—and the Sky— The privilege to scrutinize Was scarce upon my Eyes When, with a Silver practise— She vaulted out of Gaze— And next—I met her on a Cloud— Myself too far below To follow her superior Road— Or its advantage—Blue—

37

1026 The Dying need but little, Dear, A Glass of Water’s all, A Flower’s unobtrusive Face To punctuate the Wall, A Fan, perhaps, a Friend’s Regret And Certainty that one No color in the Rainbow Perceive, when you are gone.

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Sep 15, 2014

Sep 15, 2014 at 1:04 PM UTC

The Dying need but little, Dear

1026 The Dying need but little, Dear, A Glass of Water’s all, A Flower’s unobtrusive Face To punctuate the Wall, A Fan, perhaps, a Friend’s Regret And Certainty that one No color in the Rainbow Perceive, when you are gone.

9

579 I had been hungry, all the Years— My Noon had Come—to dine— I trembling drew the Table near— And touched the Curious Wine— ’Twas this on Tables I had seen— When turning, hungry, Home I looked in Windows, for the Wealth I could not hope—for Mine— I did not know the ample Bread— ’Twas so unlike the Crumb The Birds and I, had often shared In Nature’s—Dining Room— The Plenty hurt me—’twas so new— Myself felt ill—and odd— As Berry—of a Mountain Bush— Transplanted—to a Road— Nor was I hungry—so I found That Hunger—was a way Of Persons outside Windows— The Entering—takes away—

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Sep 15, 2014

Sep 15, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC

I had been hungry, all the Years

579 I had been hungry, all the Years— My Noon had Come—to dine— I trembling drew the Table near— And touched the Curious Wine— ’Twas this on Tables I had seen— When turning, hungry, Home I looked in Windows, for the Wealth I could not hope—for Mine— I did not know the ample Bread— ’Twas so unlike the Crumb The Birds and I, had often shared In Nature’s—Dining Room— The Plenty hurt me—’twas so new— Myself felt ill—and odd— As Berry—of a Mountain Bush— Transplanted—to a Road— Nor was I hungry—so I found That Hunger—was a way Of Persons outside Windows— The Entering—takes away—

21

419 We grow accustomed to the Dark— When light is put away— As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp To witness her Goodbye— A Moment—We uncertain step For newness of the night— Then—fit our Vision to the Dark— And meet the Road—erect— And so of larger—Darkness— Those Evenings of the Brain— When not a Moon disclose a sign— Or Star—come out—within— The Bravest—grope a little— And sometimes hit a Tree Directly in the Forehead— But as they learn to see— Either the Darkness alters— Or something in the sight Adjusts itself to Midnight— And Life steps almost straight.

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Sep 15, 2014

Sep 15, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC

We grow accustomed to the Dark

419 We grow accustomed to the Dark— When light is put away— As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp To witness her Goodbye— A Moment—We uncertain step For newness of the night— Then—fit our Vision to the Dark— And meet the Road—erect— And so of larger—Darkness— Those Evenings of the Brain— When not a Moon disclose a sign— Or Star—come out—within— The Bravest—grope a little— And sometimes hit a Tree Directly in the Forehead— But as they learn to see— Either the Darkness alters— Or something in the sight Adjusts itself to Midnight— And Life steps almost straight.

21

I cut the middle fingernail of the middle finger right hand real short and I began rubbing along her **** as she sat upright in bed spreading lotion over her arms face and ******* after bathing. then she lit a cigarette: "don't let this put you off," an smoked and continued to rub the lotion on. I continued to rub the **** "You want an apple?" I asked. "sure, she said, "you got one?" but I got to her- she began to twist then she rolled on her side, she was getting wet and open like a flower in the rain. then she rolled on her stomach and her most beautiful *** looked up at me and I reached under and got the **** again. she reached around and got my **** she rolled and twisted, I mounted my face falling into the mass of red hair that overflowed from her head and my flattened **** entered into the miracle. later we joked about the lotion and the cigarette and the apple. then I went out and got some chicken and shrimp and french fries and buns and mashed potatoes and gravy and cole slaw,and we ate.she told me how good she felt and I told her how good I felt and we ate the chicken and the shrimp and the french fries and the buns and the mashed potatoes and the gravy and the cole slaw too.

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Sep 15, 2014

Sep 15, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC

Like A Flower In The Rain

I cut the middle fingernail of the middle finger right hand real short and I began rubbing along her **** as she sat upright in bed spreading lotion over her arms face and ******* after bathing. then she lit a cigarette: "don't let this put you off," an smoked and continued to rub the lotion on. I continued to rub the **** "You want an apple?" I asked. "sure, she said, "you got one?" but I got to her- she began to twist then she rolled on her side, she was getting wet and open like a flower in the rain. then she rolled on her stomach and her most beautiful *** looked up at me and I reached under and got the **** again. she reached around and got my **** she rolled and twisted, I mounted my face falling into the mass of red hair that overflowed from her head and my flattened **** entered into the miracle. later we joked about the lotion and the cigarette and the apple. then I went out and got some chicken and shrimp and french fries and buns and mashed potatoes and gravy and cole slaw,and we ate.she told me how good she felt and I told her how good I felt and we ate the chicken and the shrimp and the french fries and the buns and the mashed potatoes and the gravy and the cole slaw too.

47

some people never go crazy. me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch for 3 or 4 days. they'll find me there. it's Cherub, they'll say, and they pour wine down my throat rub my chest sprinkle me with oils. then, I'll rise with a roar, rant, rage - curse them and the universe as I send them scattering over the lawn. I'll feel much better, sit down to toast and eggs, hum a little tune, suddenly become as lovable as a pink overfed whale. some people never go crazy. what truly horrible lives they must lead.

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Sep 15, 2014

Sep 15, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC

some people never go crazy. me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch for 3 or 4 days. they'll find me there. it's Cherub, they'll say, and they pour wine down my throat rub my chest sprinkle me with oils. then, I'll rise with a roar, rant, rage - curse them and the universe as I send them scattering over the lawn. I'll feel much better, sit down to toast and eggs, hum a little tune, suddenly become as lovable as a pink overfed whale. some people never go crazy. what truly horrible lives they must lead.

Some People

22

I pick up the skirt, I pick up the sparkling beads in black, this thing that moved once around flesh, and I call God a liar, I say anything that moved like that or knew my name could never die in the common verity of dying, and I pick up her lovely dress, all her loveliness gone, and I speak to all the gods, Jewish gods, Christ-gods, chips of blinking things, idols, pills, bread, fathoms, risks, knowledgeable surrender, rats in the gravy of 2 gone quite mad without a chance, hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance, I lean upon this, I lean on all of this and I know: her dress upon my arm: but they will not give her back to me.

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Sep 15, 2014

Sep 15, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC

For Jane: With All The Love I Had, Which Was Not Enough

I pick up the skirt, I pick up the sparkling beads in black, this thing that moved once around flesh, and I call God a liar, I say anything that moved like that or knew my name could never die in the common verity of dying, and I pick up her lovely dress, all her loveliness gone, and I speak to all the gods, Jewish gods, Christ-gods, chips of blinking things, idols, pills, bread, fathoms, risks, knowledgeable surrender, rats in the gravy of 2 gone quite mad without a chance, hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance, I lean upon this, I lean on all of this and I know: her dress upon my arm: but they will not give her back to me.

32

some say we should keep personal remorse from the poem, stay abstract, and there is some reason in this, but jezus; twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have my paintings too, my best ones; its stifling: are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them? why didn't you take my money? they usually do from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner. next time take my left arm or a fifty but not my poems: I'm not Shakespeare but sometime simply there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise; there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards down to the last bomb, but as God said, crossing his legs, I see where I have made plenty of poets but not so very much poetry.

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Sep 15, 2014

Sep 15, 2014 at 12:49 PM UTC

To The ***** Who Took My Poems

some say we should keep personal remorse from the poem, stay abstract, and there is some reason in this, but jezus; twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have my paintings too, my best ones; its stifling: are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them? why didn't you take my money? they usually do from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner. next time take my left arm or a fifty but not my poems: I'm not Shakespeare but sometime simply there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise; there'll always be mony and ****** and drunkards down to the last bomb, but as God said, crossing his legs, I see where I have made plenty of poets but not so very much poetry.

22

don't feel sorry for me. I am a competent, satisfied human being. be sorry for the others who fidget complain who constantly rearrange their lives like furniture. juggling mates and attitudes their confusion is constant and it will touch whoever they deal with. beware of them: one of their key words is "love." and beware those who only take instructions from their God for they have failed completely to live their own lives. don't feel sorry for me because I am alone for even at the most terrible moments humor is my companion. I am a dog walking backwards I am a broken banjo I am a telephone wire strung up in Toledo, Ohio I am a man eating a meal this night in the month of September. put your sympathy aside. they say water held up Christ: to come through you better be nearly as lucky.

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Sep 15, 2014

Sep 15, 2014 at 12:42 PM UTC

don't feel sorry for me. I am a competent, satisfied human being. be sorry for the others who fidget complain who constantly rearrange their lives like furniture. juggling mates and attitudes their confusion is constant and it will touch whoever they deal with. beware of them: one of their key words is "love." and beware those who only take instructions from their God for they have failed completely to live their own lives. don't feel sorry for me because I am alone for even at the most terrible moments humor is my companion. I am a dog walking backwards I am a broken banjo I am a telephone wire strung up in Toledo, Ohio I am a man eating a meal this night in the month of September. put your sympathy aside. they say water held up Christ: to come through you better be nearly as lucky.

For The Foxes

64

the lady has me temporarily off the bottle and now the pecker stands up better. however, things change overnight-- instead of listening to Shostakovich and Mozart through a smeared haze of smoke the nights change, new complexities: we drive to Baskin-Robbins, 31 flavors: Rocky Road, Bubble Gum, Apricot Ice, Strawberry Cheesecake, Chocolate Mint... we park outside and look at icecream people a very healthy and satisfied people, nary a potential suicide in sight (they probably even vote) and I tell her "what if the boys saw me go in there? suppose they find out I'm going in for a walnut peach sundae?" "come on, chicken," she laughs and we go in and stand with the icecream people. none of them are cursing or threatening the clerks. there seem to be no hangovers or grievances. I am alarmed at the placid and calm wave that flows about. I feel like a ***** in a beauty contest. we finally get our sundaes and sit in the car and eat them. I must admit they are quite good. a curious new world. (all my friends tell me I am looking better. "you're looking good, man, we thought you were going to die there for a while...") --those 4,500 dark nights, the jails, the hospitals... and later that night there is use for the pecker, use for love, and it is glorious, long and true, and afterwards we speak of easy things; our heads by the open window with the moonlight looking through, we sleep in each other's arms. the icecream people make me feel good, inside and out.

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Sep 15, 2014

Sep 15, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC