Whitman and Broston on Christmas

/ Saturday, December 24, 2011 /
There's a lot worth writing but I can't seem to find that voice, that one spark to ignite what's left of the fiery.  Like a mess of puzzle pieces strewn all over the floor, a lot of figuring out, perhaps, is what I'm thinking that I need as of the moment. A reorganization of sorts. But everything is quite okay. good. even better. If only I could just find that voice. 




Christmas Eve is about to roll in and I am indulging thyself on poetry. 
This is the least that I can do for now--  a Whitman and a Broston. 

O You Whom I Often and Silently Come  
Walt Whitman

O YOU whom I often and silently come where you are, that I may be with you; 
As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the same room with you, 
Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your sake is playing within me.

A Day in the Life Of
Bruce Boston

The majestic blooming
of the century plant
reveals petals of pure yellow
and stained cream,
distinct pistils and stamens.

I will love you, she said,
like Freud loved the id
in its trammeled fury.

The jaws of my brain,
adrift in opaque bestiality,
question the integrity
of a Pythagorean
reclining nude.

The heel stamp of my pen
assassinates the art
of nuclear mystics.

I will love you, she said,
like Darwin loved evolution.
Things change.

In an algid moment
the final consequences
of the abominable resonance
of a soft and hairy
architecture are revealed.

Diacritical exclamations!

The ravishing comprehension
of cannibal imperialism
by a paranoid critic.

I will eat you like the peach
I eat every Sunday, she said,
in the sky black morn.

Having teased
the sensitive mimosa
in the circular greenhouse
late that afternoon,
afterward,
he would drink peppermint tea
with the ghost of morning.


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I usually say, in the end, okay, it’s love and it’s work — what else could there possibly be? -- Maira Kalman

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