Posts Tagged ‘ singing ’

fire stoking

in

the wine

now my heart is red,

a shadow in my hand unfolding.

(azeda booth)

my love goes in and out of me,

(azeda booth)

my love is going.

a room in the turning sheets,

now

a moon in the trees,

a shadow unfolding in my hand,

the light falling on the leaves

and the moon in the tangled trees unfolding.

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for common tones in simple time by john adams

m i d e l s  for a minamalist

                                                    poet 

,so in a, p i a n o

                                                    is

a special interior held

                                                   from thee.

—————————————————

what sudden leap

from here to there

what sudden leap

a hare

a small wind blows

a small wind blows

a small window closed

in tuba or

in tuba or

a song

in turning strings

and wind or

on lips

again,

my love,

singing or

the wind is

moving in

me again

the wind is moving me.

The Owl

Who,

The owl

Going who

Suddenly to

An owl somewhere,

Or

Who

Disappeared,

In the dark arms

Of the dark trees, loudly

Once cried

And cried.

1

Okay

I am,

I am,

I am

Who cares

And kisses

And loves

And lifts

Each hand

To hand

To give

And get

But this

Is it,

I’m done.

I am

Who cares

And kisses

And loves

And loves

And loves

And slaps

Against your

Side.

A boat.

words borrowed from the ends of sentences in Steve Reich’s “Music as a Gradual Process”

2.

music rest,

music it,

material

is electronic is

mechanical or

changes music,

changes audible or

work

work

work

gradually changes is

patterns

is

patterns work

gradually moving for exclusive it.

The Richest City (A poem about my grandmother for Forough Farrokhzad)

What gives itself to the dawn

Is taken back at night

And given tomorrow again.

What is given to the dawn

Is taken from the night

And what is given to the light

Is given back to the dark

And whatever is taken from one

Is given to the other.

 

Your hands and feet and cheek

Have not withered.

Your arms and legs, my love,

Have not withered.

 

I have followed the soft line

Of your long neck,

Overcome with awe and curiosity.

I have followed the soft line

Of your neck

As if I were on the edge of an ancient city,

A rich city

That is only real

When I press my hand to its side and

It walls rise before me.

 

And wherever I have gone

I have not come back from

Completely.

My love, I have dragged my hand

Through those cities

And pulled you from the walls and streets.

My love, I have

Pulled you from the dirt of those cities

And I do not have to hold your hands

For your hands to be in my hands.

 

Who is it now that rubs their hand against my cheeks

When I am crying?

Who is it now that rubs my cheeks

When I am crying?

 

And if they wilt,

Your hands,

If they wilt

Then they wilt like the flowers wilt.

They wilt like the flowers wilt.

Becoming more, turned against themselves

And pulled away from the light and

Given to the darkness again.

 

What is taken from the light

Is given to the dark

And whatever is taken form one

Is given to the other.

 

Your long neck

Does not wilt.

Your long neck and side

Does not wilt.

But if they do

Then it is like a flower

That has crawled back inside itself.

If they do

Then it is like the flower.

 

Then it is like the dawn

That is taken from the night.

Then it is like my hand

That pulls you from the walls of a rich city.

And wherever I have gone

I have not come back from completely.

And wherever I am

I am not there completely.

Because I cannot,

Because I cannot stop.