HOW CAN WE NOT BLOG? (It's like, how can we not breathe?) How can we not have something to say or think? Even if it's meaningless to 95 percent of the people who may see it - or read it - there might be something provocative for someone else to read, see or know.
Yes, I know. I can hear you. We are able to do and say lots of things. That doesn't mean we have to pass them on - out loud or in print.
However, I have some beauties to show you. A co-worker brought some peonies into the office to share and there is no way I cannot share them with you.
My camera captured them for the eternity this blog lasts. And, also for this period of eternity, I've captured a poem by Dorianne Laux. I have wanted to find this poem for quite some time and now I know I can find it on another blog where someone else "steals" poems. This is from Laux's book "Facts About the Moon."
By Dorianne Laux from "Facts About the Moon"
Kissing again, after a long drought of
not kissing—too many kids, bills, windows
needing repair. Sex, yes, though squeezed in
between the minor depths of anger, despair—
standing up amid the laundry
or fumbling onto the strip of rug between
the coffee table and the couch. Quick, furtive,
like birds. A dance on the wing, but no time
for kissing, the luxuriant tonguing of another
spongy tongue, the deft flicking and feral sucking,
that prolonged lapping that makes a smooth stone
of the brain. To be lost in it, your body tumbled
in sea waves, no up or down, just salt
and the liquid swells set in motion
by the moon, by a tremor in Istanbul, the waft
of a moth wing before it plows into a halo of light.
Praise the deep lustrous kiss that lasts minutes,
blossoms into what feels like days, fields of tulips
glossy with dew, low purple clouds piling in
beneath the distant arch of a bridge. One
after another they storm your lips, each kiss
a caress, autonomous and alive, spilling
into each other, streams into creeks into rivers
that grunt and break upon the gorge. Let the tongue,
in its wisdom, release its stores, let the mouth,
tired of talking, relax into its shapes of give
and receive, its plush swelling, its slick
round reveling, its primal reminiscence
that knows only the one robust world.
Wow! That woman can write a poem about kissing, can't she? The first time I saw/read this poem was at a calligraphy art show. The calligrapher had taken a long, long strip of brown Kraft paper and inscribed this poem onto it. It was a great mixture of images. Imagine being that close, nose to paper, so near these luscious words describing the sensation of kissing.
Only something as sensuous as kissing could be mixed with these slippery, velvety peony petals - femminismo