Poetry corner...

His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.

Other people's poems, I meant. I'm not claiming to have written the damn thing...

I don't really know why, but this is an all time favourite. I think the idea that somehow ingesting the words fills you with the essence of poetry is wonderful. A bit like the literary equivalent of a communion wafer.

Eating Poetry - Mark Strand

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

Hey everyone, turn on to Jeremy Reed.

BLUE REMAINS
The dress over her head. It's 2 a.m.
on a day that doesnít exist,
intercalendric time, I do my nails
as poets should, a scarlet gloss,
and celebrate the unreality
of having kicked the body clock.
You stand in your bra and panties
indefinitely. There's a wind from space
delivers someone to the beach,
an arm's extended, confused contactee
arrived from missing time. The rest may still follow
converted by mutant culture.
We're free to stay for ever as we are
and be reclaimed by opportune landing
here from the nearest or the farthest star.

(Jeremy Reed, 'Blue Remains'😉

Originally posted by Bosse de Nage
Hey everyone, turn on to Jeremy Reed.

BLUE REMAINS
The dress over her head. It's 2 a.m.
on a day that doesnít exist,
intercalendric time, I do my nails
as poets should, a scarlet gloss,
and celebrate the unreality
of having kicked the body clock.
You stand in your bra and panties
indefinitely. There's a wind from space
delivers s ...[text shortened]... ortune landing
here from the nearest or the farthest star.

(Jeremy Reed, 'Blue Remains'😉