(no subject)

[inspiredlife]

Today has been a not good day. How much like a broken record do I sound? Remember way back in 2005 when I was the eternally peppy one with too many exclamation points? Yeah, I miss those days.  There was a lot about that time that was pretty fucking awesome, tbh. 

Anyway, I planned to write a largely over dramatic post of whine which would have made Mish laugh and the rest of you roll your eyes but I can't do it. I'm annoyed with my whinging so I can't imagine how y'all feel.  

So, instead I propose a swap. I'm going to go and watch an episode or two of TW. Comment with something good...something in your life, a rec, a poem you love, Colin Morgan and when I get back I'll share something good with you.  (disclaimer: if i actually get sleepy (omg, please), I might not get back until tomorrow.) Also, if you don't see this til tomorrow, comment anyway. 'twill be good fun. 

<3

Comments

[anowlinsunshine.livejournal.com]

This is my favorite poem forever and always. I fall a little bit more in love with it and the world for allowing something this beautiful to exist every time I read it. Hope it helps, bb!




Other Lives and Dimensions and Finally a Love Poem
By Bob Hicok

My left hand will live longer than my right. The rivers
of my palms tell me so.
Never argue with rivers. Never expect your lives to finish
at the same time. I think

praying, I think clapping is how hands mourn. I think
staying up and waiting
for paintings to sigh is science. In another dimension this
is exactly what's happening,

it's what they write grants about: the chromodynamics
of mournful Whistlers,
the audible sorrow and beta decay of "Old Battersea Bridge."
I like the idea of different

theres and elsewheres, an Idaho known for bluegrass,
a Bronx where people talk
like violets smell. Perhaps I am somewhere patient, somehow
kind, perhaps in the nook

of a cousin universe I've never defiled or betrayed
anyone. Here I have
two hands and they are vanishing, the hollow of your back
to rest my cheek against,

your voice and little else but my assiduous fear to cherish.
My hands are webbed
like the wind-torn work of a spider, like they squeezed
something in the womb

but couldn't hang on. One of those other worlds
or a life I felt
passing through mine, or the ocean inside my mother's belly
she had to scream out.

Here when I say "I never want to be without you,"
somewhere else I am saying
"I never want to be without you again." And when I touch you
in each of the places we meet

in all of the lives we are, it's with hands that are dying
and resurrected.
When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life,
in each place and forever.

[slashfairy.livejournal.com]

wow.
new hitchcock to me, and beautiful.
*hijacks*

[inspiredlife.livejournal.com]

Oh, god, this is so beautiful. Thank you so much for sharing this. I've read other Hicok pieces before (my fave being Her my body) but never this one.

In return, I'd like to share one of my favourite poems.

My Mother, If She Had Won Free Dance Lessons
by Cornelius Eddy.
Would she have been a person with a completely different outlook on life?
There are times when I visit her and find her settled on a chair in our dilapidated house.
The neighborhood crazy lady, doing what the neighborhood crazy lady is supposed to do, which is absolutely nothing.

And I wonder as we talk our sympathetic talk, abandoned in easy dialogue, I, the son of the crazy lady, Who crosses easily into her point of view.
As if yawning or taking off an overcoat. Each time I visit I walk back into our lives.

And I wonder, like any child who wakes up one day to find themselves abandoned in a world larger than their bad dreams, I wonder as I see my mother sitting there, landed to the right-hand window in the living room, pausing from time to time in the endless loop of our dialogue. To peek for rascals through the Venetian blinds.

I wonder a small thought. I walk back into our lives.
Given the opportunity, how would she have danced? Would it have been as easily As we talk to each other now, the crazy lady and the crazy lady's son,
As if we were old friends from opposite coast picking up the thread of a long conversation,
Or two ballroom dancers who only know One step?
What would have changed if the phone had rung like a suitor, if the invitation had arrived in the mail like Jesus, extending a hand?