There Are Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves …..


“I am one of the searchers. There are, I believe, millions of us. We are not unhappy, but neither are we really content. We continue to explore life, hoping to uncover its ultimate secret.We continue to explore ourselves, hoping to understand. We like to walk along the beach, we are drawn by the ocean, taken by its power, its unceasing motion, its mystery and unspeakable beauty.

We like forests and mountains, deserts and hidden rivers, and the lonely cities as well. Our sadness is as much a part of our lives as is our laughter.

To share our sadness with one we love is perhaps as great a joy as we can know – unless it be to share our laughter. We searchers are ambitious only for life itself, for everything beautiful it can provide. Most of all we love and want to be loved. We want to live in a relationship that will not impede our wandering, nor prevent our search, nor lock us in prison walls; that will take us for what little we have to give. We do not want to prove ourselves to another or compete for love.”

James Kavanaugh.

Sweet Darkness

Sweet Darkness
by David Whyte

You must learn one thing.
The world was made to be free in.

Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.

Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
to learn

anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive

is too small for you.

Poetry In Motion

The Too Much
by Christa Bell

I
Couldn’t have been more beautiful
Than I was last night.
I couldn’t have been sexier,
Juicier,
Or more luscious.
My ass couldn’t have been bigger
Or glowed more brightly.
My teeth couldn’t have been whiter,
Skin softer,
Hair shinier.
I couldn’t have smelled any sweeter,
Been nicer,
Skinnier,
Funnier,
Or more holy.

And still I was not enough
For you.
‘Not enough,’
My friends tell me,
Will never be my issue.
They say it’s ‘the too much’
That leaves lovers like me
Strangled by our own question marks.

You see—
Some women love lightly,
Like whispers wrapped in spun sugar.
And these are the ones who make it so hard
For the blue-black molasses
Ever-lasting taffy kind of love
That overwhelms the tongue.
They make it hard for those of us who,
Due to circumstances beyond our control,
Are destined to always
Over-love with a vengeance.

We are the spell-casting blue magic witches,
Mixing menstrual fluid into barbeque sauce.
We will gather your pubic hairs under the new moon
And bottle them in our piss.
Our territory is blood and dreams,
Past lives and other states over which
You have no control.

Be warned: you will lose all control.

So if you really need to keep it,
If you can’t keep it real,
If intensity and complexity
Just ain’t your thing,
If you can’t handle the truth,
Then brethren—fuck you.

‘Cause in this house of worship
There is no room for emotions
That judge and demand regret
For our pleasure.
If forty-eight hours later was too soon
For you to be in my mouth,
Than you shouldn’t have come there.
But don’t you tell me it’s my fault.
Every way I am is divine.
I won’t feel guilty.
I just won’t be ashamed.
I will not hide this story.
My craft obligates me to tell the truth.

And, brothers, y’all need to know:
If too much sugar makes you sick,
Spoils your appetite for even the smell of dinner,
There are certain flavors of women
You should not consume.
‘Cause tasting even a little bit
Of what you know you can’t swallow
Is
Just
Disrespectful.

Some Men..

THE MATTER
by Kim Addonizio

Some men carry you to bed with your boots on.
Some men say your name like a verbal tic.
Some men slap on an emotional surcharge for every erotic encounter.
Some men are slightly mentally ill, and thinking of joining a gym.
Some men have moved on and can’t be seduced, even in the dream bars you meet them in.
Some men who were younger are now the age you were then.
Some men aren’t content with mere breakage, they’ve got to burn you to the ground.
Some men you’ve reduced to ashes are finally dusting themselves off.
Some men are made of fiberglass.
Some men have deep holes drilled in by a war, you can’t fill them.
Some men are delicate and torn.
Some men will steal your bracelet if you let them spend the night.
Some men will want to fuck your poems, and instead they will find you.
Some men will say, “I’d like to see how you look when you come,” and then hail a cab.
Some men are a list of ingredients with no recipe.
Some men never see you.
Some men will blindfold you during sex, then secretly put on high heels.
Some men will try on your black fishnet stockings in a hotel in Rome, or Saran wrap you to a bedpost in New Orleans.
Some of these men will be worth trying to keep.
Some men will write smugly condescending reviews of your work, making you remember these lines by Frank O’Hara:
I cannot possibly think of you/other than you are: the assassin/ of my orchards.
Some men, let’s face it, really are too small.
Some men are too large, but it’s not usually a deal breaker.
Some men don’t have one at all.
Some men will slap you in a way you’ll like.
Some men will want to crawl inside you to die.
Some men never clean up the matter.
Some men hand you their hearts like leaflets,
and some men’s hearts seem to circle forever: you catch sight of them on clear nights, bright dots among the stars, and wait for their orbits to decay, for them to fall to earth.

Stolen from Jonathan Carroll

Violin

She cried for all the broken hearts,
Painted everlasting winters –
Floral patterns etched in ice;
A frozen tear to
Soften up the bastard bones.

Bow made love to needy string
In cooing fling – wanton whispers
Fondled under pianissimos,
Caressing callous hearts.

Melodrama swayed in satin sound
– Yet the player wasn’t there,
Only creamy song, soothing, yearning,
Teasing bitter minds.

I sensed her persevering loneliness
For beauty of an evening:
Romance of a tune; laughing,
Sobbing at the fire.

Then a climax –
Writhing passion cutting deep –
Wounding macho flesh,

And all in a work of musical art:
Ephemeral stories, yarned of music
Honed impossibly through her tones.

Mark R. Slaughter

Choices

CHOICES

If I can’t do
what i want to do
then my job is to not
do what I don’t want
to do

It’s not the same thing
but it’s the best I can
do

If I can’t have
what i want . . . then
my job is to want
what I’ve got
and be satisfied
that at least there
is something more to want

Since I can’t go
where I need
to go . . . then I must . . . go
where the signs point
through always understanding
parallel movement
isn’t lateral

When I can’t express
what I really feel 
I must practice feeling
what I can express
and none of it is equal
I know
but that’s why mankind
alone among the animals
learns to cry

by Nikki Giovanni

I want

Someone who loves me without restriction
Someone who needs me with full conviction
Someone to care on a cold dark night
Someone who’s there when its not alright
Someone who’s eyes see only me
Someone to stay, for eternity
Someone who’s touch is as light as a feather
Someone to roll with in Summer heather
Someone who sees to my inner soul
Someone to mend me when I’m not whole
Someone who’s body will warm my feet
Someone to shade me from searing heat
Someone to hold me and say, ‘it’s fine’
Someone always, forever, mine
Someone who comes with no complication
That someone is only imagination!

Sarah Teasdale 1884 – 1933

One of my favourite poets is Sarah Teasdale. Her poems have hidden meanings and reflect her life very clearly.

Her biography:

Sara Teasdale (August 8, 1884 – January 29, 1933), was an American lyrical poet. She was born Sarah Trevor Teasdale in St. Louis, Missouri. Throughout her life, Teasdale suffered poor health and it was only at age 9 that she was well enough to begin school. In 1898 she went to Mary Institute and to Hosmer Hall in 1899 where she finished in 1903.

In 1913 Teasdale fell in love with poet Vachel Lindsay. He wrote her daily love letters, but nevertheless she married Ernst Filsinger in 1914 when she was 30. Teasdale and Lindsay remained friends throughout their lives.

In 1918, her poetry collection Love Songs won three awards: the Columbia University Poetry Society prize, the 1918 Pulitzer Prize for poetry and the annual prize of the Poetry Society of America.

Teasdale was a product of her upbringing, and was never able to experience the passion that she expressed in her poetry. She was not happy in her marriage, becoming divorced in 1929. In 1933, she committed suicide by overdosing on sleeping pills. Her friend Lindsay had committed suicide two years earlier.

Her poems are available here, it is a free PDF download

Sarah Teasdale

The poem below “Did you Never Know” speaks volumes.

Did You?

“Did You Never Know?”

That your love would never lessen and never go?

Did you never know, long ago, how much you loved me?

You were too young to know.

You were young then, proud and fresh-hearted,

Far apart, far away in the gusty time of year

Fate is a wind, and red leaves fly before it

I know your secret, my dear,

Seldom we meet now, but when I hear you speaking,

Sarah Teasdale