i like my body when it is with your by e.e. cummings
i like my body when it is with your body. It is so quite a new thing. Muscles better and nerves more. i like your body. i like what it does, i like its hows. i like to feel the spine of your body and its bones, and the trembling -firm-smoothness and which i will again and again and again kiss, i like kissing this and that of you, i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,
Late night and rain wakes me, a downpour, wind thrashing in the leaves, huge ears, huge feathers, like some chased animal, a giant dog or wild boar. Thunder & shivering windows; from the tin roof the rush of water. I lie askew under the net, tangled in damp cloth, salt in my hair. When this clears there will be fireflies & stars, brighter than anywhere, which I could contemplate at times of panic. Lightyears, think of it. Screw poetry, it’s you I want, your taste, rain on you, mouth on your skin.
“But most importantly: I reject this entire framework. I don’t give a shit what causes anyone’s fatness. It’s irrelevant and it’s none of my business. I am not making excuses, because I have nothing to excuse. I reject the notion that thinness is the goal, that thin = better—that I am an unfinished thing and that my life can really start when I lose weight. That then I will be a real person and have finally succeeded as a woman. I am not going to waste another second of my life thinking about this. I don’t want to have another fucking conversation with another fucking woman about what she’s eating or not eating or regrets eating or pretends to not regret eating to mask the regret. OOPS I JUST YAWNED TO DEATH.”—From an awesome post by Lindy West over at The Stranger.
Girls, I was dead and down in the Underworld, a shade, a shadow of my former self, nowhen. It was a place where language stopped, a black full stop, a black hole Where the words had to come to an end. And end they did there, last words, famous or not. It suited me down to the ground.
So imagine me there, unavailable, out of this world, then picture my face in that place of Eternal Repose, in the one place you’d think a girl would be safe from the kind of a man who follows her round writing poems, hovers about while she reads them, calls her His Muse, and once sulked for a night and a day because she remarked on his weakness for abstract nouns. Just picture my face when I heard - Ye Gods - a familiar knock-knock at Death’s door.
Him. Big O. Larger than life. With his lyre and a poem to pitch, with me as the prize.
Things were different back then. For the men, verse-wise, Big O was the boy. Legendary. The blurb on the back of his books claimed that animals, aardvark to zebra, flocked to his side when he sang, fish leapt in their shoals at the sound of his voice, even the mute, sullen stones at his feet wept wee, silver tears.
Bollocks. (I’d done all the typing myself, I should know.) And given my time all over again, rest assured that I’d rather speak for myself than be Dearest, Beloved, Dark Lady, White Goddess etc., etc.
In fact girls, I’d rather be dead.
But the Gods are like publishers, usually male, and what you doubtless know of my tale is the deal.
Orpheus strutted his stuff.
The bloodless ghosts were in tears. Sisyphus sat on his rock for the first time in years. Tantalus was permitted a couple of beers. The woman in question could scarcely believe her ears.
Like it or not, I must follow him back to our life - Eurydice, Orpheus’ wife - to be trapped in his images, metaphors, similes, octaves and sextets, quatrains and couplets, elegies, limericks, villanelles, histories, myths…
He’d been told that he mustn’t look back or turn round, but walk steadily upwards, myself right behind him, out of the Underworld into the upper air that for me was the past. He’d been warned that one look would lose me for ever and ever.
So we walked, we walked. Nobody talked.
Girls, forget what you’ve read. It happened like this - I did everything in my power to make him look back. What did I have to do, I said, to make him see we were through? I was dead. Deceased. I was Resting in Peace. Passé. Late. Past my sell-by date… I stretched out my hand to touch him once on the back of the neck. Please let me stay. But already the light had saddened from purple to grey.
It was an uphill schlep from death to life and with every step I willed him to turn. I was thinking of filching the poem out of his cloak, when inspiration finally struck. I stopped, thrilled. He was a yard in front. My voice shook when I spoke - Orpheus, your poem’s a masterpiece. I’d love to hear it again…
He was smiling modestly, when he turned, when he turned and he looked at me.
What else? I noticed he hadn’t shaved. I waved once and was gone.
The dead are so talented. The living walk by the edge of a vast lake near, the wise, drowned silence of the dead.
17 clinics in one, fucking. day. 17 clinics. All part of the Targeted Regulation of Abortion Providers (T.R.A.P.) plan, to make abortions so impossible to get that they are de facto illegal for all but the richest Americans.
idc if i’m reblogging this from an obviously pro-choice person. YES this makes me so happy
This person enjoys their position of ignorance. They enjoy thinking about all of the people who bleed out in emergency rooms because they live in countries without safe, legal abortions. If you have every had an abortion because you could not afford to safely raise a child, or you were raped, or you had a medical complication that endangered your life? This person wishes you were dead. This person wishes your children were orphans. This is the cruel logic of Grizzly Fetus. This is the sort of person who cares more about imaginary clumps of cells than they do about real people.
Being happy that people die every day so you can feel smug and self-satisfied because of your “commitment to life?” That is monstrous. That is horrible. That is anti-life.
idc about imaginary clumps of cells. I care about real, live people, and that makes me better than you in about every way that it is possible to be better than another person.
NEW YORK (AP) — A New York politician is calling on the city to remove a public statue in Queens that depicts a nude man standing over two prone women and to sell it on Craigslist. Rep. Anthony Weiner says the statue, Triumph of Civic Virtue, is sexist and plans to hold a press conference Friday calling for its removal. The 20 foot high marble statue was designed by sculptor Frederick MacMonnies and unveiled in 1922 in Manhattan’s City Hall Park. Its allegorical portrayal of vice as female was even controversial back then and in 1941 it was moved to its current location near Queens Borough Hall.
I have a serious political crush on this dude right now. I mean, I have since way back during the healthcare debates of ‘09, but still. The man is amazing.
I Go Back to the House for a Book By Billy Collins
I turn around on the gravel and go back to the house for a book, something to read at the doctor’s office, and while I am inside, running the finger of inquisition along a shelf, another me that did not bother to go back to the house for a book heads out on his own, rolls down the driveway, and swings left toward town, a ghost in his ghost car, another knot in the string of time, a good three minutes ahead of me— a spacing that will now continue for the rest of my life. Sometimes I think I see him a few people in front of me on a line or getting up from a table to leave the restaurant just before I do, slipping into his coat on the way out the door. But there is no catching him, no way to slow him down and put us back in synch, unless one day he decides to go back to the house for something, but I cannot imagine for the life of me what that might be. He is out there always before me, blazing my trail, invisible scout, hound that pulls me along, shade I am doomed to follow, my perfect double, only bumped an inch into the future, and not nearly as well-versed as I in the love poems of Ovid— I who went back to the house that fateful winter morning and got the book.
“That discussion was one of the most intense conversations I’ve ever had in a business meeting,” Lady Gaga said. “Part of my deal with Target is that they have to start affiliating themselves with LGBT charity groups and begin to reform and make amends for the mistakes they’ve made in the past … our relationship is hinged upon their reform in the company to support the gay community and to redeem the mistakes they’ve made supporting those [antigay] groups.”
You walked in front of me, pulling me back out to the green light that had once grown fangs and killed me.
I was obedient, but numb, like an arm gone to sleep; the return to time was not my choice.
By then I was used to silence. Though something stretched between us like a whisper, like a rope: my former name, drawn tight. You had your old leash with you, love you might call it, and your flesh voice.
Before your eyes you held steady the image of what you wanted me to become: living again. It was this hope of yours that kept me following.
I was your hallucination, listening and floral, and you were singing me: already new skin was forming on me within the luminous misty shroud of my other body; already there was dirt on my hands and I was thirsty.
I could see only the outline of your head and shoulders, black against the cave mouth, and so could not see your face at all, when you turned
and called to me because you had already lost me. The last I saw of you was a dark oval. Though I knew how this failure would hurt you, I had to fold like a gray moth and let go.
By a vote of 5-1, Asheville City Council affirmed a resolution Tuesday night supporting equal rights for same sex partnerships. People Of Faith For Just Relationships authored the resolution, which calls for equal rights and protections for gays and straights alike. The resolution creates a Domestic Partnership Registry, full rights for same-sex couples and support of familial and civil marriage commitments. The public hearing went on for more than two hours, during which many people representing local church groups spoke out against the resolution.
It has been One Of Those Days today, in which almost everything is going wrong, and my body has decided to rebel and not do anything quite like I want. I was 40 minutes late to work this morning. I have already spilled half a bag of granola all over the place — it flew up in an arc that was suited perfectly for covering as much of my surroundings as possible (including me) with tiny little bits that hid in cracks and crevices when I went to clean them up. I accidentally left several needed things at home (including my iPod and a check that should probably have been mailed yesterday). I even forgot to apply perfume (which is a big deal, for those of you who don’t know me well).
Basically, anything happy that can be sent my way today is vital to keeping me from completely losing it. So yay Asheville, for being progressive and generally decent and lovely, and saving me (at least temporarily) from going off. ^_^
House Democrats are leaving the state rather than vote on anti-union legislation, The Indianapolis Star has learned.
A source said Democrats are headed to Illinois, though it was possible some also might go to Kentucky. They need to go to a state with a Democratic governor to avoid being taken into police custody and returned to Indiana.
The House was came into session this morning, with only two of the 40 Democrats present. Those two were needed to make a motion, and a seconding motion, for any procedural steps Democrats would want to take to ensure Republicans don’t do anything official without quorum.
Whether he will go on singing or not, knowing what he knows of the horror of this world:
He was not wandering among meadows all this time. He was down there among the mouthless ones, among those with no fingers, those whose names are forbidden, those washed up eaten into among the gray stones of the shore where nobody goes through fear. Those with silence.
He has been trying to sing love into existence again and he has failed.
Yet he will continue to sing, in the stadium crowded with the already dead who raise their eyeless faces to listen to him; while the red flowers grow up and splatter open against the walls.
They have cut off both his hands and soon they will tear his head from his body in one burst of furious refusal. He foresees this. Yet he will go on singing, and in praise. To sing is either praise or defiance. Praise is defiance.
It is late at night And the North Star is shining. The mist covers the rice-fields And the bamboos Are whispering full of crickets. The watch beats on the iron-wood gong, And priests are ringing the pagoda bells. We hear the far-away games of peasants And distant singing in the cottages.
It is late at night. As we talk gently, Sitting by one another, Life is as beautiful as night. The red moon is rising On the mountain side Like a fire started among the trees. There is the North Star Shining like a paper lantern. The light air brings dew to our faces And the sound of tamtams beaten far away. Let us sit like this all night.