Sky, baby
Scrivener May 28th, 2008
For Ampersand. Sky porn, through a window screen.
Archive for the 'Uncategorized' Category
5.13: Hungarian Horntail
All the joy I see thru these architect’s eyes
Scrivener May 11th, 2008
Just the look of those eyes
Scrivener May 9th, 2008
Where do you go when you’re lonely?
Scrivener May 7th, 2008
Where do you go when you’re blue?
Where do you go when you’re lonely?
I’ll follow you.
This week, I’m learning to play Ryan Adams’s “When the Stars Go Blue.” Well, really I’m learning the cover of the Ryan Adams tune by The Corrs and Bono, which is the version I prefer.
4.26: so steeped in the music of a voice speechless
Scrivener April 28th, 2008
4.26: so steeped in the music of a voice speechless, originally uploaded by Scrivenings.
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The Poems I Have Not Written
I’m so wildly unprolific, the poems
I have not written would reach
from here to the California coast
if you laid them end to end.
And if you stacked them up,
the poems I have not written
would sway like a silent
Tower of Babel, saying nothing
and everything in a thousand
different tongues. So moving, so
filled with and emptied of suffering,
so steeped in the music of a voice
speechless before the truth,
the poems I have not written
would break the hearts of every
woman who’s ever left me,
make them eye their husbands
with a sharp contempt and hate
themselves for turning their backs
on the very source of beauty.
The poems I have not written
would compel all other poets
to ask of God: “Why do you
let me live? I am worthless.
please strike me dead at once,
destroy my works and cleanse
the earth of all my ghastly
imperfections.” Trees would
bow their heads before the poems
I have not written. “Take me,”
they would say, “and turn me
into your pages so that I
might live forever as the ground
from which your words arise.”
The wind itself, about which
I might have written so eloquently,
praising its slick and intersecting
rivers of air, its stately calms
and furious interrogations,
its flutelike lingerings and passionate
reproofs, would divert its course
to sweep down and then pass over
the poems I have not written,
and the life I have not lived, the life
I’ve failed even to imagine,
which they so perfectly describe.
- John Brehm