You said you’d wait

Redamancy Lit

I’m ready when you are. Grab your jacket
and meet me by the entrance to that place
we’ve been circling around for ages. 

I was held up, caught between, locked
down, and pushed aside. But I still have my ticket
and you said any time. So here I am, walking

towards you and that smile. How could I have ever
put you off? Now I can hardly resist the plea to run
my hands behind your ears and kiss you the way

I wanted to the first time we met.  You said you’d wait
4,800 years for what you want and I’m in my best dress
to be that. Sorry I kept you. We’ll catch it if we hurry.

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Fist to Cuffs

Years ago, I wrote poetry. I admire the gut more than the product.

Redamancy Lit

Your deferred claim is experienced indifference.
The compensation between our desires is playful perhaps,
But when it bites in refusal, I flinch with nowhere to go.

You, my great liability, divide this heart into pieces 
Every day and spend the hours after mending; making
Me throw dice again, with all your words, save intent.

I said yes to the other just to cultivate something
Elsewhere, to find a willing hand in this emotional fist
To cuffs. To achieve would be only to distract us all from

A whole heart, the rarity one ever has to offer between
Longings and lost loves, the enigma of devotion, the risk of
Perfection, the culmination of hope, the true prize for courage.

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infinite number of beloved things

Redamancy Lit

Happiness isn’t enough for me. I demand everyday rapture because it’s right there between us. The incessant other-defining bores me. My own expectations need to surprise me. Show me your soul! I belong with you and this moment. We need to live with our hands in the ground, around each other, full of grace. I’ve been trying to do this right and I believe this is my only life. There is nothing that fills me to the top more than watching two people trying to live theirs in a singular euphoric pursuit. She asked him what kind of wedding he wants and he said, “the one where I marry you.” What could possibly mean more than that? Nothing, love. We are each others example. I adore you. Don’t apologize for getting carried away. We’re too careful, pragmatic. Let the wind pick you up and sweep your sweet soul into the…

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Fair

Rereading old posts. Like the new format? You can search categories and archives in the menu again.

Redamancy Lit

The freckles you acquired during our fiery, borrowed summer
Are fading in this freezing winter. Our hands are tucked deep
Into pockets and not clutching for each other as they did in July.
You look thin and tired. Your once cherry cheeks look as though
They haven’t felt kisses in ages … not my kisses, anyway. I miss
Seeing myself in you, the reflection of my tenderness
In your glances, the unimaginable tomorrow with you not in it.

How do we ever not love who we loved?

When I can sit across from you and note not only the faded
Freckles, but an entirely changed person. A shell of the soul
I wanted for my own. But we knew the summer sun was the timer
On our affection. I don’t think you’d disagree that we didn’t even
Love each other in truth. You were my passion displaced, my hope for

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I think we ought to read …

I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we are reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? …we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.

— Franz Kafka, January 27, 1904

Sonnet 40: Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all:
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call—
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed if thou this self deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robb’ry, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet love knows it is a greater grief
To bear love’s wrong than hate’s known injury.
Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes.

– William Shakespeare

 

 

are you kidding me??? 400+ years ago and still slaying 

From JFK’s Eulogy to Robert Frost

Strength takes many forms, and the most obvious forms are not always the most significant. The men who create power make an indispensable contribution to the Nation’s greatness, but the men who question power make a contribution just as indispensable, especially when that questioning is disinterested, for they determine whether we use power or power uses us…

Robert Frost coupled poetry and power, for he saw poetry as the means of saving power from itself. When power leads men towards arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the areas of man’s concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of his existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses. For art establishes the basic human truth which must serve as the touchstone of our judgment.

The artist, however faithful to his personal vision of reality, becomes the last champion of the individual mind and sensibility against an intrusive society and an officious state… In pursuing his perceptions of reality, he must often sail against the currents of his time. This is not a popular role…

If sometimes our great artist have been the most critical of our society, it is because their sensitivity and their concern for justice, which must motivate any true artist, makes him aware that our Nation falls short of its highest potential. I see little of more importance to the future of our country and our civilization than full recognition of the place of the artist.

If art is to nourish the roots of our culture, society must set the artist free to follow his vision wherever it takes him. We must never forget that art is not a form of propaganda; it is a form of truth… In free society art is not a weapon and it does not belong to the spheres of polemic and ideology. Artists are not engineers of the soul. It may be different elsewhere. But democratic society — in it, the highest duty of the writer, the composer, the artist is to remain true to himself and to let the chips fall where they may. In serving his vision of the truth, the artist best serves his nation. And the nation which disdains the mission of art invites the fate of Robert Frost’s hired man, the fate of having “nothing to look backward to with pride, and nothing to look forward to with hope.”

– John F. Kennedy, via Brain Pickings