June 29th, 2006



I won't stop writing. I know that I would miss it terribly, it would carve a hole in my heart. And I won't stop writing here either, because the hole in my heart if I did would be you-shaped. Writing is a comforter, warm and dovey. It's a shock to the system. It's an electric wire snapping and hissing in the rain. Writing wakes me up, it shakes me up, it quivers and leaps to life before me. It brings me unspeakable satisfaction. It makes me want to tear my hair out. It makes me feel like God.

To Poem
by Lyn Lifshin

All night
you banged
in my head
poking your fingers
thru me, hot for
blood and then
in the morning
stretching out on
the table
flaunting your muscles
when you knew there wasn't time.
Later in the car
you made me dizzy,
but worse, how you
made my love jealous
perching in my hair
with those stiff wings.
And now, bastard
alone with me finally
the chance to
scares you off.


by Elizabeth Slaughter-Ek

Other poets must know this:
the art of catching hold
when the poems fan your face
on their way by.
They listen and hear them.
What's the trick? I grope and
oh . . . a poem, but wait

too late

There are poems braided in my hair.
Peering out, behind my eyes.
In my skull, they are churning,
a big brain soup.
All around my head they hover
but I can't hear what they say.


Visit Poetry Thursday for more great poems.

A poem that blew me away yesterday: Dinner With My Dead Father, A Recurring Dream

A poem that blew me away today: A Prayer for Birds Dying in Darkness and in Light (scroll down to the bottom or read them all. Thanks to Julie Carter for the link)