Lorine Niedecker

In moonlight lies
          the river passing—
it's not quiet
          and it's not laughing.
I'm not young
          and I'm not free
but I've a house of my own
          by a willow tree.

 -*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-


What horror to awake at night
and in the dimness see the light.
          Time is white
          mosquitoes bite
I've spent my life on nothing.
The thought that stings. How are you, Nothing,
sitting around with Something's wife.
          Buzz and burn
          is all I learn
I've spent my life on nothing.
I've pillowed and padded, pale and puffing
lifting household stuffing—
          carpets, dishes
          benches, fishes
I've spent my life in nothing.


Poems by Lorine Niedecker  are from the book "Lorine Niedecker: Collected Works" edited by Jenny Penberthy, published by the University of California Press, 2002 used with permission by the University of California Press.

For Mac de Jack Spicer

For Mac

A dead starfish on a beach
He has five branches
Representing the five senses
Representing the jokes we did not tell each other
Call the earth flat
Call other people human
But let this creature lie
Flat upon our senses
Like a love
Prefigured in the sea
That died.
And went to water
All the oceans
Of emotion. All the oceans of emotion
are full of such ffish
Why
Is this dead one of such importance?

Jack Spicer

à découvrir ... http://remue.net/spip.php?article1604

The raspberry room by Karin Gottshall

It was solid hedge, loops of bramble and thorny   

as it had to be with its berries thick as bumblebees.   

It drew blood just to get there, but I was queen   

of that place, at ten, though the berries shook like fists   

in the wind, daring anyone to come in.  I was trying   

so hard to love this world—real rooms too big and full   

of worry to comfortably inhabit—but believing I was born

to live in that cloistered green bower: the raspberry patch   

in the back acre of my grandparents’ orchard.  I was cross-   

stitched and beaded by its fat, dollmaker’s needles.  The effort   

of sliding under the heavy, spiked tangles that tore   

my clothes and smeared me with juice was rewarded   

with space, wholly mine, a kind of room out of   

the crush of the bushes with a canopy of raspberry   

dagger-leaves and a syrup of sun and birdsong.   

Hours would pass in the loud buzz of it, blood   

made it mine—the adventure of that red sting singing   

down my calves, the place the scratches brought me to:   

just space enough for a girl to lie down.

 

 By Karin Gottshall

 

   

Poem copyright © 2007 by Karin Gottshall. Reprinted from “Crocus,” by Karin Gottshall, published by Fordham University Press, 2007, with permission of the author and publisher. First printed in “Black Warrior Review.”

le terrier de l'enfance (pas toutes les enfances certes) ...  ce qui est écrit laisse deviner ce qui est ressenti et l'espace créatif où l'enfance se projette. Mijo

To fortune by Robert Herrick

TUMBLE me down, and I will sit
Upon my ruins, smiling yet ;
Tear me to tatters, yet I'll be
Patient in my necessity.
Laugh at my scraps of clothes, and shun
Me, as a fear'd infection ;
Yet, scare-crow-like, I'll walk as one
Neglecting thy derision.

---

Source:
Herrick, Robert. Works of Robert Herrick. vol II.
Alfred Pollard, ed.
London, Lawrence & Bullen, 1891. 41.