iriswoodruff - Hello Poetry

when you are old I hope you remember those holy moments on my window-bed between our hip-bones and eyes, minds, torsos twisting skin never close enough to the other’s laughter. and cascading hair-curtains lips breathing other’s breath sweet and longing words words no words one word: now – here.

0

Feb 18, 2017

Feb 18, 2017 at 3:27 PM UTC

Nowhere

when you are old I hope you remember those holy moments on my window-bed between our hip-bones and eyes, minds, torsos twisting skin never close enough to the other’s laughter. and cascading hair-curtains lips breathing other’s breath sweet and longing words words no words one word: now – here.

25

Kissing yellow-orange suede lips, barely brushing hesitate to puncture such unbroken flesh then the light body lowers and feet turn home again, left hand keeping sunrise and saving it for breakfast.

0

Feb 18, 2017

Feb 18, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC

Sidewalk peach poem #1

Kissing yellow-orange suede lips, barely brushing hesitate to puncture such unbroken flesh then the light body lowers and feet turn home again, left hand keeping sunrise and saving it for breakfast.

10

Reminded her of Velvet, pushed the wrong way or Maybe the matted Fur of a stuffed animal

0

Feb 18, 2017

Feb 18, 2017 at 3:13 PM UTC

The Clouds

Reminded her of Velvet, pushed the wrong way or Maybe the matted Fur of a stuffed animal

4

Having observed others and containing the self consciousness of a noticer (do other people look at me the way I look at them?) she would dress in old borrowed clothing that smelled like other peoples’ laundry and leather because secretly she wanted to wear the other people try them on and she had this wrinkle between each brow that made her look just sort of worried no matter how she tried to press and smooth that wrinkle down with her thumb and in very private moments she’d stare at her features in the mirror with a sort of curiosity because she’d been told by leering men that she was beautiful but sometimes she saw only features: Nose eyes mouth all in pretty good proportion sure but she supposed the thing that held her curiosity was not her face itself but rather the disconnect between the face and the universe of thought behind it and all this she’d marveled at a very young age as ma would see her staring at herself in front of the bathroom mirror or in store windows and tell her not to be so vain kid to hurry along And so she feared writing about her own vulnerable beauty for fear that she might be both of those things—vulnerable and beautiful. Instead she would take an hour long train ride, fake-dozing so as not to be ticketed, walk anonymous between busy persons until she reached a place that satisfied her Washington Square park, perhaps, or some small playground on the lower east side, or down by water or the hip corner shops in Brooklyn. And there, in strangers, she would find her vulnerable beauty, and there with the aid of a pen they became her and she became them.

0

Feb 18, 2017

Feb 18, 2017 at 3:11 PM UTC

Becoming

Having observed others and containing the self consciousness of a noticer (do other people look at me the way I look at them?) she would dress in old borrowed clothing that smelled like other peoples’ laundry and leather because secretly she wanted to wear the other people try them on and she had this wrinkle between each brow that made her look just sort of worried no matter how she tried to press and smooth that wrinkle down with her thumb and in very private moments she’d stare at her features in the mirror with a sort of curiosity because she’d been told by leering men that she was beautiful but sometimes she saw only features: Nose eyes mouth all in pretty good proportion sure but she supposed the thing that held her curiosity was not her face itself but rather the disconnect between the face and the universe of thought behind it and all this she’d marveled at a very young age as ma would see her staring at herself in front of the bathroom mirror or in store windows and tell her not to be so vain kid to hurry along And so she feared writing about her own vulnerable beauty for fear that she might be both of those things—vulnerable and beautiful. Instead she would take an hour long train ride, fake-dozing so as not to be ticketed, walk anonymous between busy persons until she reached a place that satisfied her Washington Square park, perhaps, or some small playground on the lower east side, or down by water or the hip corner shops in Brooklyn. And there, in strangers, she would find her vulnerable beauty, and there with the aid of a pen they became her and she became them.

2

Well, in one of the various underground labyrinths before you get on the L train back uptown. A man, young man, sitting at a harshly assembled desk behind an old typewriter behind a sign: (F-R-E-E Poetry) feverishly typing stopping to pause every few seconds behind a line of six people Including me Waiting for our Free poems, please. wore a scarf and hat because it is cold In Brooklyn in January Six clicks, space, pause, eleven clicks Enter, Behind furrowed features Something metaphysical A ghost. Everyone in line leaning forward— Make something Holy for us Angel. (didn't look up once.)

0

Feb 18, 2017

Feb 18, 2017 at 3:04 PM UTC

I saw a real Angel on the subway once

Well, in one of the various underground labyrinths before you get on the L train back uptown. A man, young man, sitting at a harshly assembled desk behind an old typewriter behind a sign: (F-R-E-E Poetry) feverishly typing stopping to pause every few seconds behind a line of six people Including me Waiting for our Free poems, please. wore a scarf and hat because it is cold In Brooklyn in January Six clicks, space, pause, eleven clicks Enter, Behind furrowed features Something metaphysical A ghost. Everyone in line leaning forward— Make something Holy for us Angel. (didn't look up once.)

23

Somethin' about an empty room, depending on how the light asks to be let in on its edges. An empty room don’t expect you to do nothin' whatever. And its floor responds in this kinda lilting relief when you tap-dance barefoot upon it. If you sit in all its corners, with your eyeballs (try it!) you can trace the refractions and suggestions on the wall, 'specially the places where paint and odd plaster stick up like little men and cast shadows all their own. You can spend hours doing this. You, the impressionable film upon which the world's projected herself—you turn the world upside down and make sense of the image in this empty box. You Make art here. Shout here! Run and kick and punch through the walls and Love them as you do so, kid. Something about emptiness itself, gets a lot of flack, you think, cast as grave. Hell! Emptiness: potential, Emptiness: casting being in sharp distinction. Emptiness: sensual, like breath before the action of the human magnetic. You: the one alive in this your empty room and therefore acutely aware of what you chose to project in such vibrant relief. Today, it is newspapers and magazine clippings and a notebook and a blue pen and a book by Susan Sontag. Today you lie on the woody floor, supine, eyes wide and become part of it your lungs breathe life into this ancient emptiness. And the air between its walls vibrates, and sighs, nascent, ‘thank you.’

0

Feb 18, 2017

Feb 18, 2017 at 3:01 PM UTC

camera obscura/ode to emptiness

Somethin' about an empty room, depending on how the light asks to be let in on its edges. An empty room don’t expect you to do nothin' whatever. And its floor responds in this kinda lilting relief when you tap-dance barefoot upon it. If you sit in all its corners, with your eyeballs (try it!) you can trace the refractions and suggestions on the wall, 'specially the places where paint and odd plaster stick up like little men and cast shadows all their own. You can spend hours doing this. You, the impressionable film upon which the world's projected herself—you turn the world upside down and make sense of the image in this empty box. You Make art here. Shout here! Run and kick and punch through the walls and Love them as you do so, kid. Something about emptiness itself, gets a lot of flack, you think, cast as grave. Hell! Emptiness: potential, Emptiness: casting being in sharp distinction. Emptiness: sensual, like breath before the action of the human magnetic. You: the one alive in this your empty room and therefore acutely aware of what you chose to project in such vibrant relief. Today, it is newspapers and magazine clippings and a notebook and a blue pen and a book by Susan Sontag. Today you lie on the woody floor, supine, eyes wide and become part of it your lungs breathe life into this ancient emptiness. And the air between its walls vibrates, and sighs, nascent, ‘thank you.’

22