100 Bells

BY TARFIA FAIZULLAH

With thanks to Vievee Francis

My sister died. He raped me. They beat me. I fell

to the floor. I didn’t. I knew children,

their smallness. Her corpse. My fingernails.

The softness of my belly, how it could

double over. It was puckered, like children,

ugly when they cry. My sister died

and was revived. Her brain burst

into blood. Father was driving. He fell

asleep. They beat me. I didn’t flinch. I did.

It was the only dance I knew.

It was the kathak. My ankles sang

with 100 bells. The stranger

raped me on the fitted sheet.

I didn’t scream. I did not know

better. I knew better. I did not

live. My father said, I will go to jail

tonight because I will kill you. I said,

She died. It was the kathakali. Only men

were allowed to dance it. I threw

a chair at my mother. I ran from her.

The kitchen. The flyswatter was

a whip. The flyswatter was a flyswatter.

I was thrown into a fire ant bed. I wanted to be

a man. It was summer in Texas and dry.

I burned. It was a snake dance.

He said, Now I’ve seen a Muslim girl

naked. I held him to my chest. I held her

because I didn’t know it would be

the last time. I threw no

punches. I threw a glass box into a wall.

Somebody is always singing. Songs

were not allowed. Mother said,

Dance and the bells will sing with you.

I slithered. Glass beneath my feet. I

locked the door. I did not

die. I shaved my head. Until the horns

I knew were there were visible.

Until the doorknob went silent.

Coming up

our father who art in a penthouse
sits in his 37th floor suite
and swivels to gaze down
at the city he made me in
he allows me to stand and
sollicit graffiti until
he needs the land I stand on
I in my darkened threshold
am pawing through my pockets
the receipts, the bus schedules
the matchbook phone numbers
the urgent napkin poems
all of which laundering has rendered
pulpy and strange
loose change and a key
ask me
go ahead, ask me if I care
I got the answer here
I wrote it down somewhere
I just gotta find it

somebody and their spraypaint got too close
somebody came on too heavy
now look at me made ugly
by the drooling letters
I was better off alone
ain't that the way it is
they don't know the first thing
but you don't know that
until they take the first swing
my fingers are red and swollen from the cold
I'm getting bold in my old age
so go ahead, try the door
it doesn't matter anymore
I know the weakhearted are strongwilled
and we are being kept alive
until we're killed
he's up there the ice
is clinking in his glass
I don't ask
I just empty my pockets and wait
it's not fate
it's just circumstance
I don't fool myself with romance
I just live
phone number to phone number
dusting them against my thighs
in the warmth of my pockets
which whisper history incessantly
asking me
where were you

I lower my eyes
wishing I could cry more
and care less,
yes it's true,
I was trying to love someone again,
I was caught caring,
bearing weight

but I love this city, this state
this country is too large
and whoever's in charge up there
had better take the elevator down
and put more than change in our cup
or else we
are coming
up

Paris

By Paul Perry
Make me bitter
Count me among the almonds
From my mouth
You almost would have lived

Count me among the almonds.
The night is the night.
From my mouth
You almost would have lived.

The night is the night.
In the swell of wandering words
You almost would have lived
Without words too.

In the swell of wandering words.
You fill the urns and feed your heart.
Without words too.
Twelvemouthed.

And I lie with you, you in the refuse
Get drunk and name yourself Paris.
Twelvemouthed.
As if we could be we without us.

Count me among the almonds.
Make me bitter.
You almost would have lived.
Make me bitter.

The Sorrow of Love

W.B. Yeats

The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth's old and weary cry.

And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world's tears,
And all the sorrows of her labouring ships,
And all the burden of her myriad years.

And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves
Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.

Never try to trick me with a kiss
Pretending that the birds are here to stay;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

A stone can masquerade where no heart is
And virgins rise where lustful Venus lay:
Never try to trick me with a kiss.

Our noble doctor claims the pain is his,
While stricken patients let him have his say;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Each virile bachelor dreads paralysis,
The old maid in the gable cries all day:
Never try to trick me with a kiss.

The suave eternal serpents promise bliss
To mortal children longing to be gay;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Sooner or later something goes amiss;
The singing birds pack up and fly away;
So never try to trick me with a kiss:
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Jim Morrison poem, Untitled

A wake
Shake dreams from your hair

My pretty child, my sweet one

Choose the day, & the sign
of your day,
1st thing you see.

A burnt tree, like a giant
primeval bird, a leaf,
dry & bitter, crackling tales
in its warm waves.
Sidewalk gods will do for you.
The forest of the neighborhood,
The empty lost museum, &
The mesa, & the Mt.'s pregnant
Monument above the newstand
where the children hide
when school ends

Delusion Angel

One of my absolute favourite movies, Before Sunrise, introduced me to one of my favourite poems, 'Delusion Angel'.
The poem 'Delusion Angel' by the poet David Jewell was actually written for Before Sunrise. In one of the film's scenes, the two main character, Jesse and Celine, come across a bum while wandering the streets of Vienna. Instead of typical begging, he asks them to give him a word and he will write a poem containing that word. And if they like the poem, they can buy it from him. Celine gives him the word 'milkshake' and this is the poem he "writes":

Daydream delusion,
Limousine eyelash
Oh baby with your pretty face
Drop a tear in my wine glass
Look at those big eyes
See what you mean to me
Sweet cakes and milkshakes
I'm a delusion angel,
I'm a fantasy parade
I want you to know what I think
Don't want you to guess anymore
You have no idea where I came from
You have no idea where we’re going
Lodged in life, like branches in the river
Flowing downstream,
Caught in the current
I'll carry you, you'll carry me
That's how it could be
Don't you know me?
Don't you know me by now?




{I thought I'd post the video with the shortened version of this scene, but if you want to watch the scene in its entirety, you can here.}

I've always loved that part. Whether or not the poet wrote that poem right then, it's still such a beautiful idea. I mean, if you have to beg you might as well put your creative juices to work!

{P.S. - I wrote a story for one the writing prompts! You can read it if you click the link on the right side of the page entitled "Prompt Responses."}

anyone lived in a pretty how town

anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did


Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain


children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more


when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her


someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream


stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)


one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was


all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.


Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

They are sick

sick

sickly sweet

white teeth and laces every edge

increased and faded.

Glossy goddesses,
hair a cascade
outstretched arms
in gauzy facade.

Light pouring on them:

Thin

red-lipped

inhaling

kissing

dancing

suspending

in stilled frame.

"Aren't I

aren't I glamorous

in my collared boned shame?

Don't you wish you were me,

with sunken, mocking face?

I am the picture of perfecteion

my eye-lights never fade

I am guiltless temptations

but beauty knows no pain."

anonymous singer

{This is a poem inspired by something that happened this evening as my brothers and I were walking our neighbour's dog.}

as we walked the neighbour's dog
a song breathed through
the darkness

faint at first
like a figment of our imagination
but then stronger
unable to be ignored

some boy
some anonymous boy
in an anonymous room
poured his soul into the night
to the beat of his
own drum

did he suspect he would have an audience
of three people
and one apathetic dog?

had i been alone
i would have stayed to listen
to his pulsing rawness

but reality pulled at the leash;
i moved on with my
unsentimental brothers

but something in me wished
i could've stayed or
even followed the sound

something in me wished
life could be like
a book or movie
so i could have stayed,
joined his anonymity
to make music with him

(don't we all want to be
anonymous, alive?)

Brave New Voices

A few of my favorite performances from the HBO series Brave New Voices. I do not own these videos and the poetry is all theirs, hope you all enjoy!! (PS: please excuse the quality of some of the videos, It's the best I could find on youtube)

You know, I think more and more often.

by Tadeusz Borowski

You know, I think more and more often

that I should go back.

Maybe I’ll meet you. And happiness?

Happiness is being sad together.

So I look through the moonlit window

and listen.

Nothing. A breeze stirs somewhere.

Alone among the leaves - the moon.

Like a golden wheel it rolls

above the windblown leaves.

Such moons, only paler,

shone over the Wisla.

Even the Big Dipper on its course

stops in a tree at midnight,

just like at home. But why here?

Truly, I don’t know.

What’s here? Longing and sleepless nights,

unknown streets and somebody’s verse.

I live here as a nobody:

a Displaced Person.

I think of you. I know I must leave.

Perhaps we can return to our past,

but I know neither what youth will be like

nor where you are.

But I’m yours or no one’s

forever. Listen,

listen, read this poem

if somewhere you are alive.

The Moon and The Yew Tree

by the wonderful Sylvia Plath


This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky --
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly bong out their names.

The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness -
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.

I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.

My eyes are knives

they hit my lungs and puncture

I am balloon splinters:

Rotate, turn, and break.

I am film covered and bubbling

don't you see?

We smile through the churning

the clattering spines

We line up and bellow

one
by
one

Hair flipped examinations

yellow pearly daggers

popping holes inside my mind.

(Hello my fellow writers :) Just a reminder to any new followers that if you would like to become an author you can post your email in a comment or send it to me at sernityr101@sbcglobal.net and I'll add you ASAP. Also, I was wondering if anyone would like to start doing something new like posting writing prompts and seeing what we can come up with. It's fantastic excersise and I haven't thought through how we would do it, but I was wondering if anyone would be interested in that? Let me know!

Love you all,

Ever

In Broken Images.

He is quick, thinking in clear images;
I am slow, thinking in broken images.

He becomes dull, trusting to his clear images;
I become sharp, mistrusting my broken images,
 
Trusting his images, he assumes their relevance;
Mistrusting my images, I question their relevance.
 
Assuming their relevance, he assumes the fact,
Questioning their relevance, I question the fact.
 
When the fact fails him, he questions his senses;
When the fact fails me, I approve my senses.
 
He continues quick and dull in his clear images;
I continue slow and sharp in my broken images.
 
He in a new confusion of his understanding;
I in a new understanding of my confusion.

Robert Graves

Annabel Lee

by Edgar Allen Poe
(because this would not be a blog if it didn't have a little Poe :) )

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

Full Moon

By Elinor Wylie

My bands of silk and miniver

Momently grew heavier;

The black gauze was beggarly thin;

The ermine muffled mouth and chin;

I could not suck the moonlight in.

Harlequin in lozenges

Of love and hate, I walked in these

Striped and ragged rigmaroles;

Along the pavement my footsoles

Trod warily on living coals.

Shouldering the thoughts I loathed,

In their corrupt disguises clothed,

Morality I could not tear

From my ribs, to leave them bare

Ivory in silver air.

There I walked, and there I raged;

The spiritual savage caged

Within my skeleton, raged afresh

To feel, behind a carnal mesh,

The clean bones crying in the flesh.

 

(A lovely little poem I found at poetryoutloud.org. I had never heard of her before but she is such a wonderful writer! xxx)

The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock

I am currently reading Selected Poems by T. S. Eliot and I have simply fallen in love with him.
I had never read much, if any, of his poems but from the first stanza I was hooked! Isn't it just wonderful discovering "new" poets?

So far, one of my favourite Eliot poems has been "The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock" which is one of his most famous poems.
It is a rather long poem so I will only share an excerpt from it. (This excerpt starts {and ends} somewhere in the middle of the poem. I chose this particular section because I amazingly found three images on weheartit that go with it.)



















Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?














And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
___________________________

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
















{Pictures found here, here, and here.}

You are invasions,
skin deep molecules of sun.
I
am
hapless.
I was once Happy
brilliance hidden under windowsills
gentle curtained silks lining my days,
though it never seemed that way.
If only I could see me now...
(Hello again, dears. Just a reminder that any authors wanting to join our blog can email me sernityr101@sbcglobal.net or just comment below to leave your email address. I saw the most amazing thing the other day that I thought might inspire someone. I was stopped at a red light and in the lawn beside us there was a water spout. I have no idea why it was there, but it appeared to have been on recently because...
There was ice, frozen and floating,
a stream in midair...
.... And it was beautiful...
Xxx)