"noisiest" poems
“*who
would cry
being loved,
when even such tinkling
comes of the loving?*”
“Grasses” by Alfred Kreymborg
<•>
we all make lots of love
in the same way as billions of others
grunting huffing noises of neural tissues torn and reborn
but the notes and noises we make, keep, unique no one else’s
the bored and the low thinkers saying “honey, you just wrong,”
the tinkling sounds are the silent mitosis of cells splitting
and then rejoicing rejoining, definable only as unique
so we both weeping, side by side, only we together can
hear the sounds of our life becoming and being,
no one else quite can be so specific
you could be there and still not hear the heat of our love making
who
would cry
being loved,
by the creative silences we have just written?
we would. we do. we are the noisiest lovers ever. tinkling laughter. creating.
____________________________________
http://academyofamericanpoets.cmail19.com/t/ViewEmail/y/8D7DB5963FD3CE00/98E58011B0AFF2EF20B193FBA00ED1DB
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 2:38 PM UTC
“I’m just confused.” You say.
“About?” Is all I volley with, throat still clogged with tears.
“Your writing, I feel like I know you, then suddenly I feel like I don’t know a whole part of you.”
How do you think I feel, Love? I thought you only had pretty words for me, then surprise, and your doubt, fear, lies, love, are all exposed for the world to see. My faults and yours for everyone else. Our relationship falling apart as your fame grows greater. Pain gets reads.
“I don’t know where it comes from.” I say.
Silence.
“It’s like I put my pen to paper and it pours out.” I continue.
Your brow furrows, digging for something more.
“It’s not even just that, It’s how you act around people it’s different with everyone. I don’t know if you’re real with me.”
I don’t either, I think as the tears spring forward faster. I’m frantically searching for a shade of me to hold onto, one I like. It’s hard to find, personas slipping through fingers like sand.
“I just…” I trail, hoping for an interruption, but you wait.
“I’m a people-pleaser; I know what makes them feel good. I can read them well, I can understand their wants, so to ease some pain, I’ll be what they need.”
Still Silence.
The fullest, noisiest silence.
Am I real? I thought so, with you, yes. With others? No. My parents need a good girl, who loves them like a child. My roommate needs someone to ***** with her, bend to her will, be her punching bag. Your roommates need a girl with ***** someone to shoot **** like they do. Someone to ignore sexism, and racism, hate speeches, and ***** jokes. My school friends need a quirky weird girl who’ll never say no. My teachers need a hard-worker. My boss needs more availability.
I need quiet. I need love. I need to find myself in a maze of personas. Each only slightly different. Then I realize, I’m me already. I don’t need to find myself, I’m here waiting, I just need room to grow. RoomToBreathe. So I light a match, set fire to the maze, and watch as all the lies go up in flames.
Aug 2, 2010
Aug 2, 2010 at 11:45 AM UTC
Through those long hours of indiscretion
And those long wept nights
I have detested
The constant echoing of that one word
In the alleys of my mind
With each passing second, hour and night
The echoes got
Louder
Shriller
Noisiest
Those echoes of 'undefined'
The echoes of what you left me with
After I offered you all that I was
In my body, soul and mind
You said what we shared was undefined
Transforming my life
Hours of my day and my nights
Into a struggling realm
Where I struggled to find
Some invisible strings that might
Lead me to a ray of light
Where I can start my search for myself
Left by you as 'undefined'.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 4:23 PM UTC
A Cornish sunrise
is spoiled by bleating tourists;
I enjoy the sunrise
with all but my eyes.
As sure as God is sifting out the chaff
and with mathematical certainty...
my listlessness is becoming an issue.
A fist is shaking at me again,
but I’ve stopped looking at faces.
I reach for a book, not to read,
but to straighten my posture,
by opening it in my lap.
I hear sailing boats
always, living here, the constant
boom swing and rattling of cheaply
made metal clips and whipping ropes.
I hear the negligence of novice sailors
and their secret wishes to accidentally
lose their family on the rocks.
I hear the sound of life jackets
hanging on their pegs whilst
skinny kids think that
the sea is just a big blue
bouncy castle.
I have observed how things
can go very wrong;
I was a lifeguard and then coast
guard working for the RNLI.
Now I try and enjoy the sunrise each
morning but the noisiest of tourists are
walking around in groups of
foghorn and sheep’s wool
and warning us of nothing
— so loudly.
They’ve closed the lighthouse
and the docks, ship don’t
come here anymore.
Just these novice sailors
who, with unerring instinct,
sink for the weight of their
masculinity
or lose a crew member
or be pinched painfully by a crab.
Their kids ask: How do boats float?
They ask that as their life jackets
swing on the peg
— the seas are not calm today.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:21 PM UTC
~
<>
*nearby distant,
the soft thrash of warm waves
lapping interlocking,
happily wet tongue kissing,
sun-oven precision-crisping
the Long Island striped bass
and porgies, at a surreal cooling
77 degrees
Pandora synced to his eyes,
shuffling freely,
by saying
we too see!!
playing for him,
Stairway to Heaven (Led Zeppelin)
poor, poor poet,
strains to brain drain one more time,
conducting an ogling googling word search
for those combinatory storied ones that
sailboat glide
all the while
wildly bursting with Pellegrino effervescence
compromising sounds sights,
to present
properly the balance,
to preserve
properly this moment,
peaceful alive for all times,
as poet has tried,
and failed so many times before...
the caw caw caw of the crow mocks the illiterate human,
for the bird calls it, in single sound perfect and
the human a laughingstock,
for not in his possess,
to capture this perfect moment
of human sabbath.
a Roman Saturn day of rest,
on this day that itself,
is perfection,
perfect for celebrating our common creation,
on a day that our
almost-all-agreed-upon calendar
is marked for us to
forte rest,
from an existence of just laborious
the chubby checkered cheeked squirrels
laughingly pauses,
watching, enjoying a poet's struggle,
mind boggle,
the poet's chubby cheeks
stuffed with discarded words,
all insufficient to capture
the absolution of
absolute beauty
bathing in the noisiest of nature's sounds,
all that contravene the silence of living things,
breathing prayerful thoughts that all
summary end,
with a common gesture of
forefinger upon the lips
a human acknowledgment of
utter obeisance to the forces
calling out by example
listen, see!
silently presenting,
this,
this!!*
a day that demanded perfection
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
5.41
is the time on the clock face,
when the first kookaburra
calls.
this corner of the world,
still dark and cold.
but then i suppose,
some poor sucker,
had to get the early bird gig
i just wish, it was'nt,
the noisiest bird in the park.
look out worms.....laughing death is on the wing.
and thus starts another day.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 4:04 PM UTC
Stare carefully. Drop it. Say yes to the coffee. Handle grip. Roll. Ticket scanned. Waved hand and then - stand. Stand more still. Mouthy slime. Thank you but sharp objects? Sneeze. Bless you. Floor. Floor. But more parking. Those seats. Pasta, beef. Gargle and inflate. Wear all red for all the hate. One kit. Quiet down the pumps. Noisiest shoes. And we’re gone. Thirty seven thousand feet kind of gone. Thunder side note: I want more friends. A little flash…and shake. How serious. Get up. Gingeralebreakanail. What happens if we crash. Home, not hometown.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 12:15 AM UTC
Half-lidded eyes gaze
into blue light from
screen as upper legs
clasp together involuntarily,
chest still heaving randomly
with gasps or sighs as comfort
and relaxation wash through
tense, electrically charged muscles
static cling from sleeves' struggle
with woolen blanket, inner
thighs' heat spreading to
surface from friction and
folly and fumbling and my lip is sore from my teeth
because when my whole body climbs into divinity
I feel no pain
my stomach aches suddenly
for filling, but the rest of my
body quiets the noisiest of us
since we're so cozy in our
splendid vibrance, muted
as the world seems after
gongs and cymbals clash like
titans in my heartbox and veins
tremble and thrum and throb
in the pleasant-est of places
here
I am suddenly again climbing
that mountain, white and gold
heat like sunshine and water
became one element and they
pour through my skin into my porous bones
as I drink
Mouth, don't leak these secret passions!
I shudder to myself and I think of this energy
as life embodied in one small window, have I glimpsed heaven?
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 12:38 AM UTC
From the noisiest mind
To the quietest mind
Here, I find an uncomfortable moment
A quiet mind
A new me
May 24, 2021
May 24, 2021 at 10:10 AM UTC
There's something so peaceful
about being intertwined within
the arms of the person you love.
There's an effortless simplicity
that I can't quite put a finger on,
but it leaves me breathless and
in total awe, trapped beneath all
the emotions laced between all
our endeavours.
Just as staring in silence,
no movements
—just this unexplainable static that vibrates between our fingers—
captivates the inner part of my soul.
Because I don't know how
to determine the trademarks
of a soulmate, but if it's anything like this
—if its passion races through your mind like rapids,
if the multitude of love circulates cosmos throughout the universe of your mind,
if it is destined to leave you with nothing less than utmost fascination,
if it numbs your heart but fuels the life within your spirit—
it has to be real.
I am at peace in the noisiest states,
and I am connected by this promise
I make to you.
gd
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 9:46 PM UTC
::::::::::
in stillness...in what appears to be quiet
so many things take place...
there's buzzing, hearts are pounding,
faraway drums beating, like thunder, blaring,
in a soundlessness that reverberates,
:::::
no one can tell when dewdrops fall
not a sound permeates the air
they have long been nourishing,
moistening the grass of the earth, yet,
no one hears, no one sees, how, or when...
the leafholder, without a fiber of speed
in its body....devours a whole leaf,
there is no chewing, or munching heard
even when watched, it gives no sounds.
:::::
my purple dendrobium proudly
shows new flower buds with such calm,
from the base of the cattleya orchid, young
green roots take a grasp on the driftwood.
how, or when these took place,
i really didn't hear, or notice.
:::::
on the street, a humble, lightweight
house spider, with less than eight legs
suddenly moved....like tumbleweeds,
rolling with the blowing of a gusty wind,
a crawling see-through ball, entangling
fallen strands and tiny strips of street dirt,
i almost stepped on it,
i didn't notice....i didn't hear...
the faucet leaks...pail is nearly filled
there's a gap of many seconds, before
each drop falls and touches the surface
of the rising water...too long....most often
too late....when heard, and noticed...
:::::
so many babies...young children disappear, they
pass away...adults die from many unacceptable
causes......some self-inflicted...some make it normal
an entry into statistics....read, heard, with passing winds...
:::::
we live in this noisiest of planets
every nook, every part, occupied
yet, significant parts of this world....of our life
remain unheard...........unnoticed.
"i look....but i don't see...
i listen.....but i don't hear."
Sally
Copyright October 28, 2017
rrab
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
Existence in its fullest bloom
Sings sweetly out to me
Awakening of Spring a tune
Which knells out merrily
Birds beget stacatto sounds
Their transcendental song
Which rings across the Earth, around
Its ways, up and along
And if you strain you’ll hear the work
Of solitary bees
Vibrating in the background
At a most peculiar frequency
Sharing their sweet treasures
As they circle flowers' girth
A contribution too vast to measure
For they do the work of earth
When thunder shakes the firmament
It riots through my brain
Only stopped by lightning
That heavenly refrain
Where nature dwells songs do swell
The sounds are in the plenty
Ranging from the rancorous
To the sweet and to the dainty
Crescendo of the summer
That noisiest procession
My sad ears dote on its gay notes
Which rise in supersession
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 6:27 AM UTC
it's always the same
you everywhere
& me
finding the poetry in shaking
finally finding it silent
then realizing
this
this missing you
this loving you in volumes
it's the noisiest thing
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
everything we know
is human.
humans even create
explanations for nature
anything human
will come to an end
we can not build anything
to last forever
we can not feel
anything
to last forever
we can not
last forever
in a world built to expire
there is no infinite anything
all that is infinite is space
and it seems the world has little of that
i can't think of anything more powerful
than an infinite vacuum of anything you would love
to last forever
* * * * * * *
every inch of our world
drenched, by the same water
over and over
endless cycle of repeating voices
noises visions of the noisiest
hungriest tool of destruction
demolishing villages
filling our oceans
filling our glasses
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 1:50 PM UTC
I want you to know
that you cannot have me.
We are third-world countries
apart.
Our views are different;
yours – passionate,
mine – practical.
You hear beautiful music
in the noisiest place; whereas
that same area
disturbs me.
Where you see opuntias,
I see prickly spines
waiting
to pierce my
shield of sensibility.
Your sanguinity spites me,
yet it resounds from within—
a dreamer’s echoes in my veins.
Nonetheless, you have taught me,
guiding me through my
self-inflicted stress.
Your persistence has
deprived me of
pessimism, so
I thank you.
Jun 17, 2015
Jun 17, 2015 at 11:15 PM UTC