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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: Odots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: Santi
    Elite Ratio:    7.28 - 299/307/90
    Words: 269
    Class/Type: Poetry/Misc
    Total Views: 1136
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 1729



    Description:
       My brothers & I somehow came up with this New-moon celebration thing.

    "il vino della casa": a vineyard's house wine.

    "Che minchia" (MEEN-kya): Equivalent to "What the fuck" in Sicilian. Very useful phrase. Literally means "cock". Yup.


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsOdots
    -------------------------------------------


    squinting through setting-sun & shotgun talk,
    Beppo, Seb & Vito love me enough
    to drink my backwash on a regular basis.

    we share at least 50% of our genes anyway,
    chased down with il vino della casa, unearthed from the cellar.
    I consider how this has to count for something,

    should be enough, while out the window of the old ford
    my hand becomes a hawk scouring its wings
    through a wind of fine muscle & bone.

    :

    at dusk, our empty moon is low along the coast
    & nearing the teapot in the constellation Sagittarius
    as we travel eastward against the stars.

    each night this week the moon has waned in cosmic reverie,
    the houses drawing closer to the trees in a sooty light
    that kept the very thought of us alive.

    now we are four night birds falling into each other,
    spilling wine on cracked leather seats & saying
    che minchia! to every bump & curve in the road

    :

    out of town. we watch each silhouette giving in
    to the no-light. the earth itself spewing grit & salt,
    grinding on its dark axis, seemingly alone.

    having always moved, our bodies can't recall
    why we spin this way or who first named the blank moon
    New, believing with enough faith for all

    that the moon was not lost or gone forever,
    not a greatly missed & missing O, but
    an unlit promise: a there-not-there still full.




    Submitted on 2011-01-27 00:46:04     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      gosh, now i see how Aly ups her words per, she just posts a pretty poem, talk about sneaky!

    i couldn't write a poem like this, even if i replaced all your things with my things i still couldn't write a poem like this. it's lovely, it feels a bit elusive- the way raphael is sometimes elusive, not really elusive (your poem) it's just that in 3 particular passages you hit me with your phrasing and the rest of the poem is like glue, like the 985% of a rock: holding the seam of a rock.

    i won't copy paste and name them, like this poem, i'll leave you wondering.

    and because it's not something i'd change, not something i could replicate i'll not give line by line on the poem, but just enjoy the view.
    | Posted on 2011-03-11 00:00:00 | by theludus | [ Reply to This ]
      this just makes complete sense and makes me think of when i would have liked to have been born had i been given the choice and so it is a favourite in the way that the remaining 4 square inches of childhood safety blanket are still a favourite.

    you tell a story well and when words are set out this way it is simply that: a story well told and there is no-nonesense-no-padding-no-fat and maybe that's what i like the most about this: it is sparse yet somehow fulfilling, in the way that the last piece of good breakfast sausage is best, when picked up and eaten from the hand.

    it is impossible not to see steinbeck in here and maybe lorca too before he got all radical on our collective ar5es and well, that's it i suppose.

    i like the language; i like the descriptors and i like the atmospherics too (being out of town in order to watch yourself disappear is just the mutt's nuts).

    whichever.

    take it easy,

    lemonsqeezy.

    k
    | Posted on 2011-02-21 00:00:00 | by Awkward | [ Reply to This ]
      August
    Esta Spalding

    Skin-tight with longing, like dangerous girls,
    the tomatoes reel, drunk
    from the vine.

    The corn, its secret ears
    studded like microphones, transmits August
    across the field: paranoid crickets, the noise of snakes
    between stalks, peeling themselves from
    themselves.

    I am burdened as the sky,
    clouds, upset buckets pour
    their varnish onto earth.

    Last year you asked if I was
    faint because of the blood. The tomatoes
    bristled in their improbable skins,
    eavesdropping.

    *

    This is one way to say it.
    The girl gone, you left.

    & this another.
    Last year in August I hung
    my head between my knees, looked up
    flirting with atmosphere
    but you were here
    & the sky had no gravity.

    Now love falls from me,
    walls from a besieged city
    .
    When I move the mountains shrug off
    skin, horizon shudders, I wear the moon
    a cowbell.

    My symptom:
    the earth's
    constant rotation.

    On the surface the sea argues.
    The tide pulls water like a cloth
    from the table, beached boats, dishes
    left standing. Without apology
    nature abandons us.
    Returns, promiscuous, & slides between
    sheets, unspooling the length
    of our bodies.

    Black wild rabbits beside the lighthouse
    at Letite. They disappear before
    I am certain I've seen them
    Have they learned this from you?

    *

    I read the journal of the boy who starved
    to death on the other side of a river
    under trees grown so old he would not feed them
    to a signal fire. His last entry:
    August 12 Beautiful Blueberries!

    Everything I say about desire or
    hunger is only lip service
    in the face of it.

    Still there were days I know
    your mouth gave that last taste of blue.

    *

    When you said you were
    leaving
    I pictured a tree:
    spring, the green
    nippled buds

    not the fall
    when we are banished
    from the garden.

    *

    Another woman fell
    in love with the sea,
    land kissed by salt, the skin
    at the neck a tidal zone, she rowed
    against the escaping tide
    fighting to stay afloat.

    To find the sea she had to turn her back to it,
    stroke.

    The sea is a wound
    & in loving it
    she learned to love what goes missing.

    *

    Once the raspberries grew
    into our room, swollen as the
    brains of insects, I dreamt a
    wedding. We could not find our
    way up the twisted ramp, out from under
    ground, my hair earth-damp.

    I woke. A raspberry bush clung to us
    sticky as the toes of frogs.
    A warning: you carried betrayal
    like a mantis
    folded to your chest -- legs, wings, tongue
    would open, knife
    the leaves above us.

    *

    If I could step into
    your skin, my fingers
    into your fingers putting on
    gloves, my legs, your legs,
    a snake zipping
    up. If I could look
    out of your tired eyeholes
    brain of my brain,
    I might know
    why we failed.
    (Once we thought the same
    thoughts, felt the same things.)

    A heavy cloak, I wear
    you, an old black wing
    I can't shrug off.

    O heart of my heart,
    come home. O flesh,
    come to me before
    the worm, before earth
    ate the girl,
    before you left without
    belongings.

    *

    You said, there are women
    I know whose presence
    changes the quality of air
    .

    I am not one of those. The leaves
    lift & sigh, the river
    keeps saying the unsayable things.
    I hesitate to prod the corn from the coals
    though I have soaked it in Arctic water.
    I stop the knife near the tomato
    skin, all summer coiled there.
    You are not coming back.

    One step is closer
    to the fire.

    September will fall
    with twilight's metal,
    loose change
    from a pocket. Quicker than
    an oar can fight water,
    I will look up from my feet
    catch the leaves red-handed
    embracing smoke.

    Around me, lost things gather
    for an instant
    in earth-dark air.
    | Posted on 2011-01-28 00:00:00 | by AlyRose | [ Reply to This ]


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