snakeandthepomegranatepoetry

[snakeandthepomegranatepoetry]

“The Colossus” by Traci Brimhall

From Our Lady of the Ruins

[snakeandthepomegranatepoetry]

A man looks at his son - written by Natan Yonatan in memory of his son, Lior, who was killed in the Yom Kippur war in 1973. He was 21 years old.

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little boy in the dark with blood on your hands you can’t keep crying if you want to keep going little girl in the light with your brother still missing you can’t keep crying if you want to keep going little boy in the dark with your heart now roaring grow up grow strong and focus your fury little girl in the light with red string round your wrists grow up grow strong and focus your fury little boy in the dark with a prince on the prowl what life was it anyway, this wreckage of yours? little girl in the light with your heart in your mouth what life was it anyway, that black hole of his? little girl in the light with blood on your hands you can’t keep crying if you want to keep going.

ASTERION // ARIADNE part ii by elisabeth hewer (via elisabethhewer)

[snakeandthepomegranatepoetry]

HER STRONG ENCHANTMENTS FAILING Her strong enchantments failing, Her towers of fear in wreck, Her limbecks dried of poisons And the knife at her neck, The Queen of air and darkness Begins to shrill and cry, “O young man, O my slayer, To-morrow you shall die.” O Queen of air and darkness, I think ‘tis truth you say, And I shall die tomorrow; But you will die to-day.

A. E. Housman (via poets-kick-ass-blog)

[snakeandthepomegranatepoetry]

"You Bring Out The Mexican In Me" by Sandra Cisneros

“You Bring Out The Mexican In Me” by Sandra Cisneros

You bring out the Mexican in me. The hunkered thick dark spiral. The core of a heart howl. The bitter bile. The tequila lágrimas on Saturday all through next weekend Sunday. You are the one I’d let go the other loves for, surrender my one-woman house. Allow you red wine in bed, even with my vintage lace linens. Maybe. Maybe. For you. You bring out the Dolores del Río in me. The Mexican spitfire in me. The raw navajas, glint and passion in me. The raise Cain and dance with the rooster-footed devil in me. The spangled sequin in me. The eagle and serpent in me. The mariachi trumpets of the blood in me. The Aztec love of war in me. The fierce obsidian of the tongue in me. The berrinchuda, bien-cabrona in me. The Pandora’s curiosity in me. The pre-Columbian death and destruction in me. The rainforest disaster, nuclear threat in me. The fear of fascists in me. Yes, you do. Yes, you do. You bring out the colonizer in me. The holocaust of desire in me. The Mexico City ‘85 earthquake in me. The Popocatepetl/Ixtaccihuatl in me. The tidal wave of recession in me. The Agustín Lara hopeless romantic in me. The barbacoa taquitos on Sunday in me. The cover the mirrors with cloth in me. Sweet twin. My wicked other, I am the memory that circles your bed nights, that tugs you taut as moon tugs ocean. I claim you all mine, arrogant as Manifest Destiny. I want to rattle and rent you in two. I want to defile you and raise hell. I want to pull out the kitchen knives, dull and sharp, and whisk the air with crosses. Me sacas lo mexicana en mi, like it or not, honey. You bring out the Uled-Nayl in me. The stand-back-white-bitch-in me. The switchblade in the boot in me. The Acapulco cliff diver in me. The Flecha Roja mountain disaster in me. The dengue fever in me. The ¡Alarma! murderess in me. I could kill in the name of you and think it worth it. Brandish a fork and terrorize rivals, female and male, who loiter and look at you, languid in you light. Oh, I am evil. I am the filth goddess Tlazoltéotl. I am the swallower of sins. The lust goddess without guilt. The delicious debauchery. You bring out the primordial exquisiteness in me. The nasty obsession in me. The corporal and venial sin in me. The original transgression in me. Red ocher. Yellow ocher. Indigo. Cochineal. Piñón. Copal. Sweetgrass. Myrrh. All you saints, blessed and terrible, Virgen de Guadalupe, diosa Coatlicue, I invoke you. Quiero ser tuya. Only yours. Only you. Quiero amarte. Aarte. Amarrarte. Love the way a Mexican woman loves. Let me show you. Love the only way I know how.

[snakeandthepomegranatepoetry]

I caught you by the neck on the shore of the sea, while you shot arrows from your quiver to wound me and on the ground I saw your flowered crown. I disemboweled your stomach like a doll's and examined your deceitful wheels, and deeply hidden in your golden pulleys I found a trapdoor that said: sex. On the beach I held you, now a sad heap, up to the sun, accomplice of your deeds, before a chorus of frightened sirens. Your deceitful godmother, the moon was climbing through the crest of the dawn, and I threw you into the mouth of the waves.

“To Eros” by Alfonsina Stormi

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In your dream, Icarus screams at you because you touched the sun and didn’t melt. In your dream, Medea curses you with a knife to your jugular because you could persuade your lover to come back to you. In your dream, Hera puts a noose around your neck. She doesn’t understand why the ones you love are faithful to you of all people. In your dream, Achilles comes for you with the rage of every fury in Tartarus because you sent your love to war and he came back to you, unharmed. In your dream, all the gods and queens are rolling around in the dirt, wondering what happened to who they were. In your dream, you are not happy. You are not even content because you’ve never known misery. You’ve never wanted to rip the heart right out of you– or tear the skin off your back and swallow it down. In your dream, you are jealous of tragedies. and the truth is, we all want our own tragedy, because life is pale without it. we want the teeth, the screaming, the survival  that comes with it.

Salma Deera, Why You Wanted A Tragedy (via writingwillows)

[snakeandthepomegranatepoetry]

Who rises in a melody of solace from the depths of sleep? Who escapes the night like quicksilver and emerges from the sea in surrender to the body’s delights the screaming of a bewildered flower who hears the greening of gold purity pour into the soul? I have not seen the light murmur on the secret shore nor can the darkness within me predict the warbles of morning Was it pride that brought me upon a camel howdah from suffering to compassion all for my own glorification? I who tremble with ecstasy in meadows hidden from the sun my rapturous crown, depths of hell I wear my mask of doubts adorned with the blood of the peacock and praise your bright mystery O angel of weddings

“Ode of Commencement” by Ahmatjan Osman

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Sinking stars halfway over far walls, Floating clouds veil serried turrets. From the jade vault comes pure winds, Silk curtains reach out to the autumn moon. Wrapped in thought she dreams of that man, Sunk in despair she longs for day to break. Who'd have though a man would travel so long? Many a time she sees flowing fragrance fade. Waters wide, river without a bridge, Mountains high, paths denying passage.

“Bright Moon Bright” by Liu Shuo

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Flying Chestnut champs long reigns, Winging,wing turns the light wheels. My lover looks down as he fords green flowing torrents, Looks up as he crosses the hill's nine folds. The long path is winding and perilous, Autumn plants grow on both sides. Yellow blooms like heaps of gold, White flowers like scattered silver, Green buds shoot kingfisher tints, Crimson corollas image red clouds. And in their midst dew-laden boughs, Purple blossoms enshrining plain scent Hang luxurious in patterns crystalline, Wafting fragrance and freshness. My eyes grow dizzy with glorious designs, My mind whirls with wondrous colours. I soothe my heart, mourn the lone traveler, Look down and up, feel self-pity. I pause with a sigh by the garden wall, Take my pen and compose this verse.

“Crystalline” by Yang Fang

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You do not know how hard it is, transfiguring blood into ink-- emerging from one's secret dream to voicing the dream. Perhaps I need to understand what swirls in me when we meet. Do you know that constellations of cities and paths tangle restlessly in the sand? I do not know the name for such sweet incandescence. Even now I have not discovered all the stars fanning out in the soul and body like eloquent shining symbols. Under a mass of snow a violet is patiently waiting. Each opening rose partakes in the patience of ages. These are the things we must share, and how the world takes shape within me. Pulled between a world I wish to create, I begin again. Each time you transform me into a haze, Wait for my anxiety for this nameless creature thumping in my breast. I begin again with your book, from your book, reading the first pages over and over, dazzled, amazed, enveloped by vast days and puzzling depths, saying: The moment will come in which I discover language, voice of the sun's fruits, dialect of waves engulfing my heart. Maybe then I will be able to add a single syllable to this existence-- this arduous impossible task.

Intimations of Anxiety by Laila Al-Sa’ih

[snakeandthepomegranatepoetry]

We linger awhile in this silence, waiting perhaps the pure wrath which, being in us already, is not coming. It is like fire in the salt-blood of the sea, the wild seed in the red dust which I spit into like an Indian and knead into the god, into this wild rose, and this dream of a white-hot bee with a sterile, diamond sting. In this silence of the beach these echoes bead out like sweat, these images where blossoms of foam tremble along the littered shore, a dream on the lashes of the sea heavy with salt for all our wounds: Here the bones of a bird still charmed in the symmetry of flight; there some empty cans, their surface a garden of rust roses like a frail handkerchief stained with blood wiped from a face-- a scattering of signs and our voices mixed like blood, like the smells of lovers, like history-- angry words, emerging like the stars on the right, in the expected place.

Marina II by Ivan V. Lalić

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You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? ‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I’ll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops, Weakened by my soulful cries? Does my haughtiness offend you? Don’t you take it awful hard ‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines Diggin’ in my own backyard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I’ve got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history’s shame I rise Up from a past that’s rooted in pain I rise I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.

Still I Rise Maya Angelou, 1928 (via doubledaybooks)

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The Hsiungnu fate will soon be sealed. I stand by the Jade Gate Pass. Lotus blooms sheathe my dagger hilt, An autumn moon clasps my sword pommel. Your spring loom hums meek and mild, Summer birds pine with cries of longing. My wife at home watches for me, Her wild husband never comes home.

“Her Wild Husband” by Wu Chün

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Spring grass gathered can be bound, But my heart is quite broken. From grief green-glinting hair turns white, Pink cheeks from tears have paled. Tears not only form beads of pearl, But I see pearls change to drops of blood. I long to be a flying magpie mirror Fluttering to reflect your parted image.

“Spring Grass” by Wu Chün

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Biting back tears I leave the suburb gate, stroke my sword at deserted crossroads. Sandy winds rise dark along the border, My exiled heart stares to my village and realm. Midnight. I go to my empty pillow, Dream of going home for an instant. My widowed wife sighs at the door, Unwinding silk she makes the loom hum again. We talk happily of our long separation, Return together to silk bedcurtains. Faint, faint chill beneath the eaves, Dim, dim, gleam in the window. Cut orchids compete with her fragrance, Plucked chrysanthemum contends with her bloom. From opened boxes she gathers sweet herbs, Feels inside her sleeve, unties sachet strings. In my sleep the long road grew nearer, After I woke the great river cut me off. I got up afraid, sighed futile sighs, My fevered soul flew forward. White river in spate menaced, menaced, High mountains grim loomed large. Billowing tides change from flux to ebb, Windy frost turns bloom into decay. This land is not my land. No one to tell of my despair.

“Dreaming of Home” by Pao Chao

[snakeandthepomegranatepoetry]

Straight as silk of scarlet strings, Pure as ice in a jade jar, Why should I be ashamed of past love? Jealous hate wells up inside me. People in love despise favours grown old, Public opinion shuns failure, courts success. Once a flaw minute as a hair appears Even mountains won't fail to crumble. The seedling gobber is the big rat, The whiteness smircher is the bluebottle. Ducks and geese from afar become prized, Firewood and feed are valued all out of proportion. Queen Shen was deposed when Paossu was promoted. Lady Pan retired when Chao Feiyen was in ascendance. Each day the king of Chou sank deeper in obsession. The Han emperor sang her praises ever louder. Their doting admiration was unreliable, A courteous veneer is not something to rust. Since time began it has been like this. You aren't the only one beating your breast!

“Jealous Hate” by Pao Chao