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Literature Text
Tonight I had bitter melon,
savoring the ascetic shock on my tongue.
Fried with pork, it was sublime
and embraced with salt and fat.
I have heard that it's good for blood pressure,
and surely that wrinkled, arm-length, green plant
debuted in ancient scrolls as healthy
or at least as magical.
In my life, I have not eaten enough bitter things.
The sweet and its artificial laughter,
the salty and its associated discontent I know.
Spice and sexual fervor,
sour and invigorating surprise I know.
But bitter and gratefulness,
penitence, restrained rapture,
I am only just discovering.
To carefully craft flavors to feed the soul,
no work is masterful without bitterness.
savoring the ascetic shock on my tongue.
Fried with pork, it was sublime
and embraced with salt and fat.
I have heard that it's good for blood pressure,
and surely that wrinkled, arm-length, green plant
debuted in ancient scrolls as healthy
or at least as magical.
In my life, I have not eaten enough bitter things.
The sweet and its artificial laughter,
the salty and its associated discontent I know.
Spice and sexual fervor,
sour and invigorating surprise I know.
But bitter and gratefulness,
penitence, restrained rapture,
I am only just discovering.
To carefully craft flavors to feed the soul,
no work is masterful without bitterness.
Literature
She was Beautiful
We have a daughter
called poetry—
quiet with little fuss—
looking up
& molding us as god.
Her small verbs
span indifferent cities,
aloof mountain ranges,
& the hours of
blank faced clocks
between sunrises.
She knows there are
worse things than dark—
the black waters of the mind
are scarier.
We have created her
from love,
pressed & dried bouquets
& willow sticks—
things only we
could make a life from.
One day we'll wake up
as different people
but the magic
of a shared procreation
will keep us tied—
wanting to see each other's
newly patchworked faces.
We have a daughter
called poetry—
Literature
Fugue
I found her in a tree, once.
She was sittin' stuck in the uppermost branches, serene and unsurprised as an angel on Christmas morning. Dappled light inked her pretty with the shadows of leaves, and her fingers faintly tapped the rhythm of a bright hymn on the burdened limb.
"Hello!" she called, miraculously. The sun made a silhouette of her waving arm, and I breathed for the first time in hours. Her face looked so sweet, smilin' and brilliant. Though she was only a few dozen feet up, she looked down at me as though she was ages and miles away.
"Susan, get down from there," I yelled. "Momma's worried," I added in a mutter, my gaze scurr
Literature
distinction
This is what I cannot understand.
There is an understanding that nothing is ever black and white. Good can be achieved through bad means, what's wrong can sometimes be right, and if you turn right for long enough, you eventually go left. Boys can be girls who fall in love with girls who sometimes think they are boys and the lines between everything end up irreversibly blurred.
Or so I've always thought.
But this is a line that cannot be blurred. This is the only remaining clear-cut line that separates black from white as perfectly as a color wheel. And that is the fact that everything is until it isn't. We are until we aren't. We breathe u
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A Poem a Day 22/10/11. I had Okinawan food with my club friends, it was wonderful.
Comments3
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I adore the second stanza.
The first feels like a narrative, and doesn't have quite the pull that the latter half of the poem does. But this:
"In my life, I have not eaten enough bitter things.
The sweet and its artificial laughter,
the salty and its associated discontent I know.
Spice and sexual fervor"
Gorgeous
The first feels like a narrative, and doesn't have quite the pull that the latter half of the poem does. But this:
"In my life, I have not eaten enough bitter things.
The sweet and its artificial laughter,
the salty and its associated discontent I know.
Spice and sexual fervor"
Gorgeous