A Disappointment
by Louis Jenkins
When I came across this poem, I liked it so much that I ordered the book it’s from. But nothing else in the book appealed to me the way this one did.
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The More Loving One
by W.H. Auden
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i’ve been writing a few poems recently which always feel embarrassing to share but i guess i’m feeling particularly brave today
comfortable
trying to make me as comfortable as possible
i bought an amish bed and he offered to come along
he charmed the salesman as i browsed in peace
the world was easier, safer with him aroundtrying to make him as comfortable as possible
he cried in bed, exhausted, and i held his hand through the pain
ashamed, he didn’t know how to ask for it
but thanked me afterwardsa scared little boy, of nightmares, of death
he prayed for me and i fell asleep peacefully
but he didn’t wake again
our fears still manifest, but fragile
showing new cracks every day
repeatedly dying but now not entirely unpleasant
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an invitation
come to my bible study
gently trace my verses with your finger
and i’ll try to follow along
make me your daily devotional
study me, dissect me, digest me
linger there, until you understand
until you’re satisfied
until you know me in the biblical sense
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I’ve been engaged in personal and professional game narrative projects since 2018 that have sucked all my energy to do personal writing. Found some old ones I was slightly less unhappy with.
To give up your dreams
in seasons they go
not grandly forego
but Fall from the trees
one by one bye all.
Wings whip the day sore
and growing in dusk
they loom from view to gloom
the bat’s shadowplay on the moon
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The artist takes a bended knee.
In him I see myself.
He takes all that he wants to be,
Displays it on a shelf
He knocks upon an open door,
He loots an empty room.
Towards his subject he implores,
“How did you meet your doom?”
He ponders on the early graves
Of heroes, queens and kings.
The battlefield inlaid with glaives,
He starts the road and sings.
His mind is blown off with the wind
A place unknown, to return again
A place unknown, to return again,
A criminal racked with guilt.
Shrouded in the light of sin,
His conscious stained with filth.
He wraps himself in lenin hold,
He steals a loaf of bread.
The owner of the cloths gone cold,
And the baker’s all but dead.
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October 23, 2013
i think
it could all be okay
in a matter of time.
i wonder about those things. those ineffable things.
the way she said
“period.”
was so firm.
i stood behind the wall, and peeked over.
i didn’t like
what i saw
there.
i could have been anyone.
but i didn’t recognize
myself
anymore, after the fire.
all i could become was
wasted opportunities
and suspect.
a pilgrimage of sorts -
something you would tell
small people.
sometimes we just say
our children
as if our having children
is a given.
not taken for granted at all.
this would be
a special memory.
a fun, happy event, on the lake
where the breeze blows out and across,
beyond a baked-in
reality simulator.
everyone important is there
or
here, i mean.
in my dreams.
i couldn’t remember
the next day.
either it was a dream or
i was
extraordinarily drunk.
please, give me money so i can help someone help myself.
i’ll never forgive myself.
i’ll never forget myself.
i’ll never regret myself.
i try not to kid.
you remember things you don’t always want to
remember (things), though.
if you recall, the first time
i ever kissed a girl,
at the movie theater.
i can’t remember which film it was anymore.
it doesn’t matter.
it doesn’t matter anyway.
one thing is separate from that:
the feeling.
you know, you end up
realizing these things never go away.
or, i do,
anyway.
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That one is especially good because Xin Qiji’s reputation is basically as one of those muscular patriotic wartime loyalist poets, it’s just so comforting to know those guys all also got just as deep in their feelings as other poets
It’s like when you see an action movie star out of costume and he’s got tons of jewelry and earings and stuff, and you’re like right he is after all an actor
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From an enormous self published collection of haiku on sea slugs ive been slowly reading through. Most of the poems are given this much attention! The guy is a total weirdo and I’m really grateful he made this book. His website is worth looking at.
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two (translated) rimbauds about going off
“Ma Boheme” (1870)
I went off, my fists in my torn pockets,
Even my coat was becoming ideal:
I went beneath the sky, Muse! I was yours;
Oh! What splendid loves I dreamed of!
My only trousers had a large hole in them.
– Tom Thumb the dreamer, sowing the roads
With rhymes. My shelter was under the Great Bear.
My stars in the sky were rustling softly.
And I listened to them, sitting on the wayside,
Those good September nights, when I felt the drops
Of dew on my forehead like a fierce wine.
Where, rhyming amidst fantastical shadows,
Like lyre-strings, I plucked the elastics
Of my wounded shoes, a foot close to my heart.
“Departure” (1873)
Enough seen. The vision has been met in every air.
Enough had. Distant sounds of cities, in the evening, and in the sun, and always.
Enough known. Life’s injunctions. O Sounds and Visions!
Departure in new affection and new noise.
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