I like American accents. Espesically the southerny ones. <3 But Americans never seem to have shakey nervous voices.... You all seem to confident and sure of yourselves... I want that ability, but my voice has been picked on all my life XD
HERE ARE SOME POEMS. THIS ONE IS DRAGONFLIES BY FRANCES LEVISTON.zamochitOctober 16 2008, 00:36:26 UTC
Watching these dragonflies couple in air, or watching them try, the slender red wands of their bodies tapped end to end, then flatering wide on the currents of what feels to me a fairly calm day,
I think of delicate clumsinesses lovers who have not yet mentioned love aloud enact, the shy hands they extend then retract, the luscious fumbled chase among small matters seeming massive as rushes are to dragonflies,
and in the accidental buzz of a dragonfly against bare skin, how one touch fires one off again on furious wings driven towards love and love, in its lightness, driven the opposite way
so in fact they hardly meet but hang in the hum of their own desires. Still, who would ask These dragonflies to land on a stone And like two stones to consummate? How can I demand love stop, and speak?
Frances Leviston, GlisszamochitOctober 16 2008, 00:37:48 UTC
Those Sunday mornings, surfacing to find the futon bigger and his pillow cold, I confess to feeling a second’s relief as I shifted, pleasantly half-asleep, back to the solo self I’d always been; until the tuning-up began again from the living room, where he sat alone bending every errant note back into shape;
then troubling between two chords he loved the silver shriek of a hand on the move, that tell, that banshee of art-in-creation they call a gliss: a slight imperfection’s imperfect name, just shy of glitch or loss, and not quite bliss, as it never quite is.
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But Americans never seem to have shakey nervous voices.... You all seem to confident and sure of yourselves... I want that ability, but my voice has been picked on all my life XD
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couple in air, or watching them try,
the slender red wands
of their bodies tapped
end to end, then flatering wide
on the currents of what feels to me
a fairly calm day,
I think of delicate clumsinesses
lovers who have not yet mentioned
love aloud enact,
the shy hands they extend
then retract, the luscious fumbled chase
among small matters seeming massive
as rushes are to dragonflies,
and in the accidental
buzz of a dragonfly against bare skin,
how one touch fires
one off again on furious wings
driven towards love and love, in its lightness,
driven the opposite way
so in fact they hardly meet
but hang in the hum of their own desires.
Still, who would ask
These dragonflies to land on a stone
And like two stones to consummate?
How can I demand love stop, and speak?
Reply
should not show its tricksy face here, today,
in the hot church of conviction - I’ll tell you
Joan of Arc, who I sometimes see
heading the school bus stampede at three thirty,
her little knot of loyals behind her
desperate to find suc confidence
(let’s not forget, Joan was barely twelve when it started),
I’ll tell you: she was blessed. And that means
more than you or I can hope for,
muddling through the alleys to work, blanking beggars or begging ourselves; blessed with visions,
which are light, slanting through a small, high window
into a room that has no door,
where time and colour mean little or nothing
and one sees only shape, as when a girl on a pyre
burns clear of particulars, the skin’s crack, the spit
and slob of fat along the thigh,
to darken as a girl again, fixed like that
on her stage of fire. But say the room has no window.
Say you have to live
by whatever flicker you coax yourself
from splinters and scraps, and books, if needs must
(the barbarity! They cry, as if a ( ... )
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the futon bigger and his pillow cold,
I confess to feeling a second’s relief
as I shifted, pleasantly half-asleep,
back to the solo self I’d always been;
until the tuning-up began again
from the living room, where he sat alone
bending every errant note back into shape;
then troubling between two chords he loved
the silver shriek of a hand on the move,
that tell, that banshee of art-in-creation
they call a gliss: a slight imperfection’s
imperfect name, just shy of glitch or loss,
and not quite bliss, as it never quite is.
Reply
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