to the silkworm

Just re-arranging our poetry from our creative writing class for our final project, which is going to be in the form of some-sorta-book. A little sneak-peak from one of my poems.





to the silkworm

imprisoned within

silken walls

soft and sticky

shed from your lips

now motionless

easily mistaken

for cotton to plug your ears with

or for pills that make you sleep

you are not

but

you are

destined

to be free

only

when you are broken and dead

and your only creation

to be sold

for much more value

than has ever been given

to you

The Liminal

Who is it?

Who is it that makes the apples ripen and red leaves fall?

That woman who gently raises her skirt as the river washes her feet,

whose skin is like the smell of cherry blossoms,

whose laugh is like thick raindrops

and whose love is like the passing of summer.

Not Honey

Yes, I guess this blog will be about the selection of poems and quotes I will choose. We shall see how it will develop. I don't want to make big explanations. So this is the first one, by Hilda Doolittle (H.D.) with her reference to Sappho.

107: Neither honey nor bee for me

Sappho

Not honey,

not the plunder of the bee
from meadow or sand-flower
or mountain bush;
from winter-flower or shoot
born of the later heat:
not honey, not the sweet
stain on the lips and teeth:
not honey, not the deep
plunge of soft belly
and the clinging of the gold-edged
pollen-dusted feet.

Not so--
though rapture blind my eyes,
and hunger crisp
dark and inert my mouth,
not honey, not the south,
not the tall stalk
of red twin-lilies,
nor light branch of fruit tree
caught in flexible light branch.

Not honey, not the south;
ah flower of purple iris,
flower of white,
or of the iris, withering the grass--
for fleck of the sun's fire,
gathers such heat and power,
that shadow-print is light,
cast through the petals
of the yellow iris flower.

Not iris--old desire--old passion--
old forgetfulness--old pain--
not this, nor any flower,
but if you turn again,
seek strength of arm and throat,
touch as the god;
neglect the lyre-note;
knowing that you shall feel,
about the frame,
no trembling of the string
but heat, more passionate
of bone and the white shell
and fiery tempered steel.