"jorie" poems - Hello Poetry

http://m.poemhunter.com/poem/salmon/ One of my favorite JG joints. I got a book of hers in the late 90s - the power to dent he template of reason is in how she pulls word around notions. She is gold

0

Dec 25, 2013

Dec 25, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC

randy-vera

I wish Jorie Graham were on here

http://m.poemhunter.com/poem/salmon/ One of my favorite JG joints. I got a book of hers in the late 90s - the power to dent he template of reason is in how she pulls word around notions. She is gold

2

Oh Jorie. Such a sad, sad, story. If only someone could help you. Perhaps, hand you a tissue. Hold your hand when you're sad. Make you smile when you're mad. Fix your feelings when they're hurt. Cleanse the darkness wherever it may lurk. Oh Jorie...~❤

0

Feb 7, 2014

Feb 7, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC

zombiebatman

Oh Jorie

Oh Jorie. Such a sad, sad, story. If only someone could help you. Perhaps, hand you a tissue. Hold your hand when you're sad. Make you smile when you're mad. Fix your feelings when they're hurt. Cleanse the darkness wherever it may lurk. Oh Jorie...~❤

9

I touch death everywhere. It is pleasant sometimes. It is shooting upright stone forever up. It is cold metal blue, wind moving rushes, holding on to a snag as smooth as couch chamois. It is feeling wooden table bones, random spontaneous tapestries, my skin, your skin, my clothes wet with substance, drawn through mass downwards, on to you. I would let them go through me, if I could, like smoke, like talk, I feel (deaf, mute) the smoke inside from the drug inside. It would be outlawed if they could reach inside, visible words of hair-lit thinness on what is sought, reflections appearing on the beyond side of ordinary surfaces, tasting like salmon. I saw the glinting salmon meaning in a poem, Jorie. It was like when the sun came out with her, predictably, and I thought to trust it, perhaps this once, for hurt can’t last without the good also lasting. Maybe I just wasn’t listening right, this potential human being, this possibility, this normal occurrence, mundane, talked and scribbled dismissively as a dejected thought of dejection about dejection about what it is all about. Write it down, it’s a crossword, long as the climbing steps around the earth, senseless as black. white. There could be much in nothing, but it’s everywhere outside, and there are just a few stars, really. The billions are few in the outward sinking sky. See, I touch death, colorlessness, everything, sitting on ledges, feet dangling, today as yesterday as tomorrow, trying to stop this thinking habit, trying to be a Buddha about it, but the wind is cold this time, and there are too many of you. Maybe next time something will appear here, in soaking colors and ever pulsing acceptance, understanding blood, moving, living, meaning from beyond here, tomorrow or yesterday, but I hope today, before I am touched by it, and realize nothing.

0

Mar 27, 2012

Mar 27, 2012 at 8:00 PM UTC

daniello

Everywhere

I touch death everywhere. It is pleasant sometimes. It is shooting upright stone forever up. It is cold metal blue, wind moving rushes, holding on to a snag as smooth as couch chamois. It is feeling wooden table bones, random spontaneous tapestries, my skin, your skin, my clothes wet with substance, drawn through mass downwards, on to you. I would let them go through me, if I could, like smoke, like talk, I feel (deaf, mute) the smoke inside from the drug inside. It would be outlawed if they could reach inside, visible words of hair-lit thinness on what is sought, reflections appearing on the beyond side of ordinary surfaces, tasting like salmon. I saw the glinting salmon meaning in a poem, Jorie. It was like when the sun came out with her, predictably, and I thought to trust it, perhaps this once, for hurt can’t last without the good also lasting. Maybe I just wasn’t listening right, this potential human being, this possibility, this normal occurrence, mundane, talked and scribbled dismissively as a dejected thought of dejection about dejection about what it is all about. Write it down, it’s a crossword, long as the climbing steps around the earth, senseless as black. white. There could be much in nothing, but it’s everywhere outside, and there are just a few stars, really. The billions are few in the outward sinking sky. See, I touch death, colorlessness, everything, sitting on ledges, feet dangling, today as yesterday as tomorrow, trying to stop this thinking habit, trying to be a Buddha about it, but the wind is cold this time, and there are too many of you. Maybe next time something will appear here, in soaking colors and ever pulsing acceptance, understanding blood, moving, living, meaning from beyond here, tomorrow or yesterday, but I hope today, before I am touched by it, and realize nothing.

64

It was six AM and it was one AM We spoke in silence and whispers from the sheets She told me she felt disgusting I held my gut and buried my head Oceans... She called before and I slept poorly a thousand iterations of her voice That swarmed my painfully ****** mind Oceans between us... I mentioned puzzle pieces and alluded to something like a movie She questioned my rambling and I closed my eyes, listened to the fireworks She met other boys ghosts in the bad dreams haunting Memories of Jordan memories of Jorie memories of Mimi, Annie and the rest More oceans between us I feel so disconnected I wished I was dead so I couldn't hear her again but I've wished this before and nothing Maybe her eyes could pierce my heart but her eyes wander, and I wonder where she is She's sounding scared I'm apathetic by nature, I wish I could wish I wasn't Are you blinded by the dangerous because I am too Are you flailing listlessly into existence because I understand Are you feeling better because I want that are you because I am It's a recurring scene the unavailable, the broken and the best I'm drifting away and it's a world in that ocean You're with me today in hazy faded memories and I laugh when I think of your laugh I really shouldn't fall in love with somebody who can't love me back because... It's so far to Missouri and flights are expensive So I'll sit in my sadness and dream of you

0

Jul 2, 2014

Jul 2, 2014 at 8:46 AM UTC

reece

Impotent Romanticism

It was six AM and it was one AM We spoke in silence and whispers from the sheets She told me she felt disgusting I held my gut and buried my head Oceans... She called before and I slept poorly a thousand iterations of her voice That swarmed my painfully ****** mind Oceans between us... I mentioned puzzle pieces and alluded to something like a movie She questioned my rambling and I closed my eyes, listened to the fireworks She met other boys ghosts in the bad dreams haunting Memories of Jordan memories of Jorie memories of Mimi, Annie and the rest More oceans between us I feel so disconnected I wished I was dead so I couldn't hear her again but I've wished this before and nothing Maybe her eyes could pierce my heart but her eyes wander, and I wonder where she is She's sounding scared I'm apathetic by nature, I wish I could wish I wasn't Are you blinded by the dangerous because I am too Are you flailing listlessly into existence because I understand Are you feeling better because I want that are you because I am It's a recurring scene the unavailable, the broken and the best I'm drifting away and it's a world in that ocean You're with me today in hazy faded memories and I laugh when I think of your laugh I really shouldn't fall in love with somebody who can't love me back because... It's so far to Missouri and flights are expensive So I'll sit in my sadness and dream of you

47

Dear Jorie Graham: I have called your poems unreadable crap. Repeatedly. I have referred to your work as "page-vomit" and proclaimed you the biggest fraud in the history of literature. Such arrogance! My apologies. I was wrong. I no longer believe that. You will never read this. Still, I wish you well. I wish you health and a long life. Now, excuse me while I put on a dunce cap, sit in the corner and shut my stupid mouth.

0

Jan 16, 2022

Jan 16, 2022 at 8:08 AM UTC

steve-matthews

A Humble Apology

Dear Jorie Graham: I have called your poems unreadable crap. Repeatedly. I have referred to your work as "page-vomit" and proclaimed you the biggest fraud in the history of literature. Such arrogance! My apologies. I was wrong. I no longer believe that. You will never read this. Still, I wish you well. I wish you health and a long life. Now, excuse me while I put on a dunce cap, sit in the corner and shut my stupid mouth.

17