December 16, 2016 at 4:06 pm (JanBoruta, Scarriet Editors)
I know fire’s pain.
But I lit a fire against the rain.
Lonely, I desired fire
To light the darkness of my desire.
Her eyes were a flame.
Her skin, dark—but bright, all the same.
I should have let the unpleasantness remain
Where it was. Fire’s pain,
Lights up the rain,
The steady rain that causes sleep.
But fire, like love, is a pain that’s deep.
I knew fire was pain,
But I lit a fire against the rain.
I lost her. I lost all.
I should have let the rain fall.
 | Mr. Woo on A MODERN POEM |
 | Gary B. Fitzgerald on A MODERN POEM |
 | Desdi on WHO SEDUCED YOU? |
| Desdi on GIVE ME WHAT I WANT |
 | maryangeladouglas on SINCE LIFE |
| maryangeladouglas on SINCE LIFE |
 | noochinator on WHO SEDUCED YOU? |
| maryangeladouglas on WHO SEDUCED YOU? |
 | thomasbrady on WHO SEDUCED YOU? |
| noochinator on WHO SEDUCED YOU? |
| noochinator on WHO SEDUCED YOU? |
| maryangeladouglas on WHO SEDUCED YOU? |
| Gary B. Fitzgerald on GIVE ME WHAT I WANT |
| Desdi on BOREDOM IS SEXY |
| Desdi on GIVE ME WHAT I WANT |
Mr. Woo said,
December 18, 2016 at 3:41 am
There sits a red
Inside each black
That holds to all
A flame.
It does not burn
The searching hand,
For a searching hand
Searches in vain.
Still, there sits a red
Inside each black
And it burns there
All the same.
thomasbrady said,
December 18, 2016 at 7:26 pm
Wow that’s nice!
Mr. Woo said,
December 18, 2016 at 7:56 pm
Thank you, Graves.
noochinator said,
December 18, 2016 at 4:49 pm
Just stumbled across this one—was Amy Lowell, like Brutus’ wife, a cutter?
Granadilla
I cut myself upon the thought of you
And yet I come back to it again and again,
A kind of fury makes me want to draw you out
From the dimness of the present
And set you sharply above me in a wheel of roses.
Then, going obviously to inhale their fragrance,
I touch the blade of you and cling upon it,
And only when the blood runs out across my fingers
Am I at all satisfied.
—Amy Lowell
thomasbrady said,
December 18, 2016 at 7:33 pm
Amy Lowell was a rival of Pound’s in the early Imagism days, before World War One. Pound and his British friends were all over going into World War One and Pound hated Lowell because she was neutral. She kept Pound on his guard but unfortunately she died early and Pound was able to grow unchecked into Great Poetry Jerk. (His poetry was okay, his criticism was crackpot junk, not even talking about his politics).
The thing about poor Amy was she was fantastically overweight and her body in the lower regions literally broke in two…she died of a hernia.