"murakami" poems
Chekhov and Murakami came to me in short spurts of memory; as if the life of a keyboard was a retro invention sinking the ancient sea bona fidelis. Temper Fidelis and sorry larks wish upon the galoshes you wore to repeated proms instigated in large moral distances between burning barns (it's a dangerous hobby). Starved for trapped frogs with claws and violence was a question answered in blood so two wrongs made a state of nothingness free of wrong or right (***you nihilistic ***** she suggested a better drink to pick at Starbucks: 'a flaming frappucino at 140 degrees.' (what are you, some angry Russian aristocrat contemptuous of an English wife T-minus a decade ? )close-bracket)
God is sick of two things: my continued and addicted references to Judaeo-Christianity and the dragged sympathy of humanity for his lost son ("it's been 2013 years for Chrissake")
you melt on me like a strange evening spent with a stick of butter
self improvement 46% complete
Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 5:19 PM UTC
Chekhov and Murakami came to me in short spurts of memory; as if the life of a keyboard was a retro invention sinking the ancient sea bona fidelis. Temper Fidelis and sorry larks wish upon the galoshes you wore to repeated proms instigated in large moral distances between burning barns (it's a dangerous hobby). Starved for trapped frogs with claws and violence was a question answered in blood so two wrongs made a state of nothingness free of wrong or right (***you nihilistic ***** she suggested a better drink to pick at Starbucks: 'a flaming frappucino at 140 degrees.' (what are you, some angry Russian aristocrat contemptuous of an English wife T-minus a decade ? )close-bracket)
God is sick of two things: my continued and addicted references to Judaeo-Christianity and the dragged sympathy of humanity for his lost son ("it's been 2013 years for Chrissake")
you melt on me like a strange evening spent with a stick of butter
self improvement 46% complete
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
in dreams people end up in
places, shrink down to sizes
aren't faces but bodies, aren't
lips, just statues, no legs, thick
torsos, you settle for old faces
call them out from behind doorways
make love to them in hallways
but they disintegrate beneath
your hands and you spend
the time waking up trying
to fall back, the lights
go off in your dream and the
people there fall asleep, you
probably saw satan once
and said he didn't belong
there, your prayers weren't
audible but drowned out his
voice, you said no, you aren't
allowed to be there, this is sullied
ground, this is hallowed ground
this is
sacred ground
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
'you've felt it, haven't you? those feelings that seem to get so big in your chest, like something is so beautiful it aches.' - Heather Anastasiu
'you have a place in my heart no one else ever could have.' - F. Scott Fitzgerald
'i knew he didn't love me, but i adored him anyway.' - Patti Smith
'i like people with depth, i like people with emotion, i like people with a strong mind, an interesting mind, a twisted mind, and also people that can make me smile.' - Abbey Lee Kershaw
'most days i wish i never met you because then i could sleep at night and i wouldn't have to walk around with the knowledge there was someone like you out there.' - Good Will Hunting
'i have a million things to talk to you about. all i want in this world is you. i want to see you and talk. i want the two of us to begin everything from the beginning.' -Haruki Murakami
'i love you in that crazy, stupid, i want to rip your throat out and kiss you at the same time love.
that love where it's so overwhelming i hate you for making me feel so vulnerable.
that love that takes over your mind and i end up thinking about you so much i drive myself into complete and utter insanity.
that love which where i put my heart on my sleeve, took everything you could throw at me and still loved you with the little pieces you left.
the love that i'll tell my kids about, the 'what if' kind of love, the one i'll never forget.
the love of my life.
that's the way i love you.' - Chippylou
'i am holding your name
underneath my tongue
in case you ask me
to make my favorite
sound.' - Stolenwine
'i need to rip your
name off my tongue;
it no longer taste
sweet. - a.w.k.jones
'i keep thinking you already know. i keep thinking i've sent you letters that were only ever written in my mind.' - Iain Thomas
'i guess what scares me the most is knowing that at any moment, you could rip my heart out of my chest, tear it into pieces, throw it on the ground and stomp all over it. and that i'd just pick it up and hand it back to you.'
'i romanticized you
to the point where
the knives you pressed
into my skin
began to look
like cupid's arrows.'
'i'll never be busy enough to not miss you.' - m.k
'i never really liked
my name
much
until i found out
what it tastes like
when you sigh it
into my
mouth'.
'i have tried to let you go and i cannot. i cannot stop thinking of you. i cannot stop dreaming about you.' - Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus
'your heart and my heart are very, very old friends.' - Hafiz, Persian poet, "Your Mother and My Mother"
'she hated that she was still so desperate for a glimpse of him, but it had been this way for years.' - Julia Quinn
Oct 2, 2013
Oct 2, 2013 at 3:47 AM UTC
There are moments when I forget myself
Almost completely.
When soul becomes shadow I midwife the space between
Keeping distance.
Haruki Murakami thinks that the line between knowing the truth and walking in a dream
Is so very thin,
A literal silver lining, leaving marks on the body
Splitting open the skin.
Aug 22, 2015
Aug 22, 2015 at 3:06 PM UTC
They didn't know that
her heart was perpetually on vacation,
stuffed
between the pages of Austen and
Murakami.
Yes, they loved her
autumn smiles, her conversations, even
the jazz ensembles of her
clothes. But her heart
was locked in the New York Public Library.
The distance was far
too great, the risk far
too much.
After all, this was the place where Paul
Varjak told Holly
he loved her
and all she did was look at him.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
We lived briefly outside and at once
all of our one lives one innocuous evening.
I think it must’ve been a round ten.
We’d gone, really and already, in every sense,
a-stoop-smoking to clear the air of Murakami
and his personal identity. I guess we knew
we’d end up breathing significantly
before time came to shepherd us back in.
On the stoop, aglow in rosewood smoke,
in the streaked light of our chosen nostalgia
and strawberry hope, we pointed to things
we really saw—everything—pressing their
dimensions sharp through the buttery plaster
of our personal identities, like certain words
I happened to glimpse, in and out of Murakami.
I was startled when a car cut through the viscous
street in front of me like a hand underneath a piece
of cloth. It bent still shadows around a perfect
globule of movement and returned each to rest
only after each of its past moments had passed.
That’s when I saw my smoke trail slowly leave me,
unapologetically, heading across the invisible prairie
on its horses to drink by the bending river in the street.
It asked me if I knew, now, why I should come along.
I pointed and asked: What was that I just saw?
Where?
There by the street. What was that?
Oh, that was just
antlers on a fire truck this past Wednesday.
I don’t understand.
Of course you don’t. You won’t remember I said it.
Then why’d you say it?
To remind you you’ll forget.
Oh, I see. Thank you, then. I was about to
forget I’d forget. Now I know
I never will.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
Perfected spending ideal day off
Prepared a hot breakfast in bed
Procrastinated Java or Columbia
Perused the paper cover to cover
Perplexed prayer over crossword
Pampered by bath-time bubbles
Phoned almost forgotten friends
Purchased Murakami on Amazon
Polished off a lunchtime martini
Postponed exercise with siesta
Perambulated the beach slowly
Pushed the boat out for dinner
Preferred Barolo to Barbaresco
Panicked - work again tomorrow.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:23 AM UTC
deep down in this well
sitting here with Haruki
a deep well for thought
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 2:07 AM UTC
I am the poem
I refuse to write.
My skin has formed itself
as sedimented book pages,
quietly injecting
our unspoken metaphors
into my bloodstream
of Murakami, of Plath,
of everything that hurt too much
to even whisper to my typewriter.
I am a poet,
and I will type you
into the night sky.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
discovered on my search today
how murakami and itoi
wrote short stories together
in nineteeneightysomething
and daydreamed of the corners
in tokyo i might never see
again all while amazed and longing
for someplace nifty to myself
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 8:09 PM UTC
she was reading haruki murakami
and licking her lips of muffin crum
bs - - i, placated via cellphone, calle
d to leave a message for a friend ab
out Oscar Wilde's De Profundis a
s i think i forgot it on his couch spea
k-easy speak-fast distract myself wit
h cigarette headrush rants and slow-
mo's she moves close gazing as i c
uriously whisper back with connect
ed pupil and she comes so so close - - g
arbage can next to me close - - she keep
s peeking at me, pulls out norwegian w
ood scans road i awkwardly pull out an
thology of chinese poems from backpa
ck to possibly impress! she keeps peek
ing peeking peeking i almost start conve
rsation but heart-beats race-track grand
prix miss my bus and i know it almost re
trieve cigarette from pocket (ghoulish goo
dy) second-guess she may think it unattra
ctive? no shiney faced race horse (*do u ev
en lift, bro - - no dude i don't, i literally do
n't lift*) cement truck clamours past and i n
ot really paying attention to the ******* c
hinese poems anyway begin to read the way
the sun glances off the spinning barrel like c
hinese poetry - - glancing always to newspea
k my way into awkwardity so ******* he
adrush** she walks away, turns on heel to loo
k me in darting eyeballs (*are u coming? i sup
pose so, jesus*) i clamour onto my feet and foll
ow her pretend to be checking bus-times ya fu
ckin goof 15X arrives and she departs without
a smoke-signal we were close we were close we
were close *and i missed my bus waiting for my
self to brave-and-snake* so i walk away pretend-
careless and finally retrieve cigarette from pocket
read the smoke like chinese poetry (ghoulish goody)
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 5:49 PM UTC
earlier today
i was alone up
on skyline reading
a book by haruki
murakami for
four hours and
the rain came and
went twice with
a rainbow that
would move paces
out against the town
and people moved up and
down the mountain
pausing for a smoke
and leaving with
their windows rolled
up, I cried a couple
times without knowing
why.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
South of the border west of the sun,
Cluttered emptiness cannot fill the hole.
Bridges fell in anger replaced by loneliness,
Murakami makes our languishing love raw.
The reflective silence eats into my soul.
The hell in the empty hello from Haiti,
Wanting you but I am on a different plane,
Knowing needs, the threads of our tapestry.
You my missing part I have been looking for
Love expressed in my doubt of past escape.
Coming back to you the fragile love of my life,
Bringing balance as my past pain takes flight.
We know the house of cards has fallen down,
Seeking new foundations for living loving life,
Can this "best thing" open a door to our future?
Smiling eyes become the windows to our heart.
Jan 21, 2012
Jan 21, 2012 at 11:11 AM UTC
I never fix my room, no, never. On every corner, my books perch, stacks after stacks, like hungry butterflies destined to inhale the delight of only three summer days.
On the chair sleep those clothes I was wearing yesterday, and the day before yesterday, and last Monday and weeks ago, like fallen unremembered friends. It still has the scent of the woman sitting next to me on the bus, beside the window, her fleeting heart and endless readings and the way love flipped between her forefinger and thumb. That was the type of love that not the world could interrupt; not even the hundred years of common existence could contain.
It still has the sound of our broken steps on the pavement, the feel of the scraping wall, the drunken scent of the stranger I ****** with. His skin against my skin, his mouth staining the length of my neck, his hair wrapping my fingers, my breath on his temple, his leg, my leg, his arm, my arm, the stars dancing and our warmth defying the curse of human mortality.
Scattered on the floor were the paintbrushes, unwashed palette, stacks of newspapers I use to cover around my interminable uncertainty. I hear the wall, almost every day, discussing about my inferiority complex, about how it impedes me from creating something original, something infinite, about how it trails behind me, gasping, grabs me from behind, locks me in then eventually enslaves me.
How dare they are to go about the spectrum of these endless wanderings, these filthy fellows who knew so well that I never comb my hair and that I have always, always, hated the boring Murakami.
I never fix my bed, no, never. The propped of my pillow, the uneven creases, they will serve as the living reminder of our final encounter. I must have disarrayed the bed sheet – I cannot remember exactly when –but I have no plan of rearranging the constellations any moment soon.
My blanket swallows me alive, its edges draping on the edge of my bed, sometimes flipping reluctantly, savoring the vacancy of the afternoon, the way the light scars my books, glistens my skin that I have strewn everywhere for the mother of otherness to eat.
Most of the time, in my sheer insanity, I set my room afire.
Apr 4, 2013
Apr 4, 2013 at 11:02 AM UTC
In the "Warwick Arms".
There's a girl wearing fake fur
of yesteryear's youth, weighing
out sexiness in the number
of beers she can afford.
How much oblivion
an unimaginative mind can take
is equal to the power of
a beached whale
drawing it's last breath.
The Russian wipes his moustache
turns around & smirks
that she's somewhat
under-dressed for the long winter.
Going to Japan.
Pink rain:
I could walk through it,
sweet-wrapped.
And the rice-blank past
would be ample weight in my hand.
Like that of roses, remembered.
In a Murakami bar,
octopi would reach out
& dangle questions.
As a thousand pair of eyes
ask me to give the lesson
no-one ever taught me.
That they alone know.
That only pink rain understands.
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
You Facebook messaged me today.
**** it’s been a month or two!
I remember at Velvet I tried
to be like Lennon to your friend Roxy!
“dance?” I said, raising my arms; eye contact; smile.
She smiled and said, “Oh no that’s ok…”
“Ok, I’m not John Lennon haha…”
Twenty mins go by. I lit a jack.
You and I geeked about Murakami.
I was three Natty bo’s deep. I glanced up; rain fell
Your friend Sara pushed up her huge [ellipses] umbrella.
You mentioned your boyfriend is a Deejay at Flash.
You Facebook messaged me today.
Oct 22, 2016
Oct 22, 2016 at 1:47 PM UTC
I will be dead
and become posthumously insane
and I will remember Suzanne Vega
every time I hear your name
I will take that look
of Vivienne Westwood's
and I will sing and sing and sing
and sink and sink and sink
and I will not think
of the appropriate things
Because I will be dead
and become posthumously insane
Even though long scarf does not suit this neck
and gas oven does not fit this head
and .38 caliber revolver is not
something a 17 year old girl would own
there is no need to worry
because now I know what loves me
It is not the explosion, not the oxygen
Not the carbondioxide, not the cyanide
It is the water, any kind of water
the tears, the saliva, the seawater
And I learnt from Haruki Murakami
that even a plastic bag would do
Mimicking the deepest sea
The sensation is true, is true ----
I remember; you liked a lot the word drown
You liked a lot the word drown
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 11:11 AM UTC
it started out because of your eyes and your smile
you have the happiest grin and i've always wondered why
and the way you frown when you're deep in thought
sometimes it makes me laugh
our similarities scare me
how can we just be born a day apart?
never have i met someone who has never read or heard of murakami
(given the diploma you're taking it's surprising)
but then again never have i felt so at peace when with someone
i guess i knew i fell in love when i missed your scent
and the way you said my name
how we held hands
and how i would jokingly push you away
because all of that made you
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
Triscuits and hummus
with olives and wine
Miles and Coltrane
in four four time
salmon and salad
rosemary and thyme
Rohmer and Renoir
at Hollywood and Vine
Haruki Murakami
and Mark Twain
these are some of the
favorite things of mine
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 9:35 PM UTC
I remember the first time you tried to love me;
You, in your Audrey Hepburn dress,
Who I told you I found quite attractive.
We ate Italian, because, like me, you like Italian.
You fed me an analysis of symbolism of Murakami
That I thought I read off of Google.
And you wore red lipstick because that’s
What classy women who fall in love wear.
Your eyes were a clouded amber,
And your hair dyed jet black, like my ex.
You want to travel to Barcelona, Spain,
Where my public Facebook pictures show I was.
And this planet’s too big, and this town too small
Not to have wanderlust, you say.
Your favorite season’s winter.
Because you love winter landscapes,
Like the snowflake wallpaper on my phone.
I call you everyday.
I remember the second time you tried to love me;
You, in your blue dress,
Which I told you was my favorite color.
(It’s yours too.)
You talked about the latest in deep space explorations
A week after I shared my moon photographs.
And isn’t NASA fascinating?
You told me about a movie you saw,
By my favorite director.
You dreamed of traveling the Nile and seeing Egyptian pyramids.
And you loved the smell of coffee,
Which I smelled like on our first date.
Your blonde roots are showing.
I didn’t call you back.
I remember the first time you loved me;
You wore purple because that’s your favorite color.
And we got breakfast because you love breakfast foods,
Not Italian.
You drank water; coffee makes you sick.
You pointed to some lilies because you love that flower.
And you told me you didn’t think Gatsby really loved Daisy
Because she was a reflection of all the things he wanted;
He was just pretending to be something
To impress her, you say.
And this wasn’t something I found off of Google.
And you mentioned how you never wanted to travel,
Except by boat,
Because airplanes are terrifying.
You hated dresses and how thick makeup feels on your face.
And NASA is interesting, but you’d rather explore the earth.
You were living with me then.
I remember the last time I loved you;
I tried finding cruise ships so we could travel
To Germany because you don’t really care for Spain or Egypt.
And I researched German alcohols because that’s what you liked.
And I wore red because you liked how it brought my eyes to life.
I talked about how fascinating ocean life is
Because you majored in Marine Biology, not Film,
Like you told me on our first date.
Murakami has dust; I read Thoreau.
Your eyes are cerulean,
Completely unlike the dark amber of the coffee I don’t drink.
And you’re gone.
Just like the man who liked Murakami and Italian food.
But I’d sell moonshine for you, sure.
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 1:18 PM UTC
He Walked through the long corridor
of Green Park tube station.
There was a strong backdraft
that pushed him from behind.
He entered the train heading westbound
to Russel Square, on the Picadilly line.
It was packed with every kind of person
imaginable--the weird, schoolkids,
the bankers, tourists, parents with babies
and then there was her.
She had shoulder-length brown hair.
She was slim, pale and had piercing green eyes.
She was wearing khaki chinos
with a white Ralph Lauren Polo shirt.
A black choker on her neck and holding
a book.
Murakami's 1Q84.
The same book he was reading.
There was a hush in the air
as their look lingered for several seconds.
She looked at him, smiled and lifted
her eyebrows.
He looked at her and said,
"If you can't understand what just happened now
without explanation,
then you won't understand it
with an explanation."
She smiled and remembered the line in the book.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 2:37 AM UTC