Failing and Flying
Everyone forgets that Icarus also flew.
It’s the same when love comes to an end,
or the marriage fails and people say
they knew it was a mistake, that everybody
said it would never work. That she was
old enough to know better. But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly.
Like being there by that summer ocean
on the other side of the island while
love was fading out of her, the stars
burning so extravagantly those nights that
anyone could tell you they would never last.
Every morning she was asleep in my bed
like a visitation, the gentleness in her
like antelope standing in the dawn mist.
Each afternoon I watched her coming back
through the hot stony field after swimming,
the sea light behind her and the huge sky
on the other side of that. Listened to her
while we ate lunch. How can they say
the marriage failed? Like the people who
came back from Provence (when it was Provence)
and said it was pretty but the food was greasy.
I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell,
but just coming to the end of his triumph.
It is a dream to move out of image-saturated spaces. I want to share images, the ones I find important, or meaningful, or beautiful. I don’t want to consume careless ones, especially the ones that repeat until everyone looks the same and faceless. There is very little uniqueness or creativity to be found on Instagram. I do not mean that I am. I might think I am but really am not at all. As much as I love and am proud of my work I don’t want to make assumptions.
Perhaps this will work as an alternative space. A selfish space where I get to give and not have to take. I could be more alive, I could find myself finally, this way.
Love After Love
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
watched a play, tried to process it, here i go
drunk enough to say i love you is fundamentally about language. the bureaucracy, selfish and hypocritical, manipulates language to create the meaning they need; love, also wrangled by the violence of language and violence against language, is politicized. all language is broken, incomplete, there is too much space to fill in the blanks, too many decisions one must make about what anything means at any moment. the power to break language, the power of language to break (people).
“here where to love at all’s to be a politician, as to love a poem
is pretentious, this may sound tendentious but it’s lyrical”
Ode: Salute to the French Negro Poets, Frank O’Hara