Marge Piercy, “Intimacy.” The Moon Is Always Female
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loving like an animal
1. "It was always you: your unutterable name, this growl in my throat." - erika meitner, copia
2. "I need your teeth in me, slow and vicious, to tell me my armor is just skin, bones, only bones." - jamaal may, the big book of exit strategies
3. "i know no love without teeth & have the scars to remember" - josé olivarez, i wake in a field of wolves with the moon
4. "and always, there is hunger / I will admit that I do not know if I should hold you or eat you." - derold ernest sligh, occupation
5. "after we have caught love we start eating it to the bone." - marge piercy, a key to common lethal fungi
6. "I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the marrow." - hélène cixous, the love of the wolf
7. "I have sharp teeth inside my mouth, / inside my dark red lips, / And lacquer slickly hides the claws / In my red fingertips. / So I conceal my armoury. / Yours is all on view. / You think you are possessing me - / But I've got my teeth in you." - angela carter, unicorn
8. “I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it – to be fed so much love I couldn’t take any more. Just once.” - haruki murakami, norwegian wood
9. "But I am not yet sure how to sever the love from the lover without occasioning some degree of carnage." - maggie nelson, bluets
10. "I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart;" - jorge luis borges, in a deserted streetcorner
11. júlia sardà portabella
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I suck my solitude
like a marrowbone, nothing
left but a memory of feasts.
Circles on the Water, ‘Going in’ by Marge Piercy
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Marge Piercy, "Ne'ilah"
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The things we wanted but never got,
those desires that were starved,
stunted, thrust into a dark closet—
what happened to them?
— Marge Piercy, from “The afterlife of old desires,” On the Way Out, Turn Off the Light
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Marge Piercy, from The moon is always female; “Night Flight”
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To Have Without Holding
by Marge Piercy
Learning to love differently is hard,
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds
that thwack like rubber bands
in an open palm.
It hurts to love wide open
stretching the muscles that feel
as if they are made of wet plaster,
then of blunt knives, then
of sharp knives.
It hurts to thwart the reflexes
of grab, of clutch; to love and let
go again and again. It pesters to remember
the lover who is not in the bed,
to hold back what is owed to the work
that gutters like a candle in a cave
without air, to love consciously,
conscientiously, concretely, constructively.
I can’t do it, you say it’s killing
me, but you thrive, you glow
on the street like a neon raspberry,
You float and sail, a helium balloon
bright bachelor’s button blue and bobbing
on the cold and hot winds of our breath,
as we make and unmake in passionate
diastole and systole the rhythm
of our unbound bonding, to have
and not to hold, to love
with minimized malice, hunger
and anger moment by moment balanced.
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Per conquistare un futuro bisogna prima immaginarlo.
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Marge Piercy, from “More Than Enough”
[text ID: The first lily of June opens its red mouth
All over the sand road where we walk
multiflora rose climbs trees cascading
white or pink blossoms, simple, intense
the scene drifting like colored mist.
The arrowhead is spreading its creamy
clumps of flower and the blackberries
are blooming in the thickets. Season of
joy for the bee. The green will never
again be so green, so purely and lushly
new, grass lifting its wheaty seedheads
into the wind. Rich fresh wine
of June, we stagger into you smeared
with pollen, overcome as the turtle
laying her eggs in roadside sand.]
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hi! do you have any poems about summer?
hi! here are some poems about summer for you. enjoy reading!
Aimee Nezhukumatathil, “Summer Haibun” | the cool night before / star showers: so sticky so / warm so full of light
Elizabeth Drew Stoddard, “A Summer Night” | The trees, the vines, the flowers are astir / With tender desire. / The white moths flutter about the lamp, / Enamoured with light
Jennifer Grotz, “Late Summer” | Summer specializes in time, slows it down almost to dream.
Jennifer O’ Grady, “Moths” | they make their way to my front porch / and flutter near the glassed-in bulb, / translucent as a thought suddenly / wondered aloud, illumining the air / that's thick with honeysuckle and dusk.
Linda Hull, “Insect Life of Florida” | the enormous Florida night, / metallic with cicadas, musical / and dangerous as the human heart.
Marge Piercy, “More Than Enough” | Rich fresh wine / of June, we stagger into you smeared / with pollen
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Marge Piercy, “May Apple.” The Moon Is Always Female
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x / x / x / x / x
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Our pain was new, a too sharp kitchen knife.
We bled on everything we touched.
Circles on the Water, ‘The bumpity road to mutual devotion’ by Marge Piercy
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White butterflies, with single
black finger paint eyes on their wings
dart and settle, eddy and mate
over the green tangle of vines
in Labor Day morning steam.
The year grinds into ripeness and rot,
grapes darkening, pears yellowing,
the first Virginia creeper twining crimson,
the grasses, dry straw to burn.
The New Year rises, beckoning
across the umbrellas on the sand.
I begin to reconsider my life.
What is the yield of my impatience?
What is the fruit of my resolve?
I turn from frantic white dance
over the jungle of productivity
and slowly a niggun slides,
cold water down my throat.
I rest on a leaf spotted red.
Now is the time to let the mind
search backwards like the raven
loosed to see what can feed us.
Now, the time to cast the mind forward
to chart an aerial map of the months.
The New Year is a great door
that stands across the evening
and Yom Kippur is the second door.
Between them are song and silence,
stone and clay pot to be filled from within myself.
I will find there both ripeness and rot,
what I have done and undone,
what I must let go with the waning days
and what I must take in.
With the last tomatoes, we harvest the fruit of our lives.
— Marge Piercy, "Coming Up On September"
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«Ain't I a Woman?» – A Midwest Newspaper of Women's Liberation, Vol. 1, No. 9, November 20, 1970, Published by Publications Collective, Iowa City WLF, Iowa City, IA [University of Iowa Libraries, Iowa City, IA]
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I find it easy to admire in trees what depresses me in people.
Marge Piercy, from The moon is always female; “The doughty oaks”
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JUNE 15, 8PM
The evening comes slowly over us,
over the cardinal and the wren still
feeding, over the swallows suddenly
swooping to snatch up mosquitoes
over the marsh where the green
sedge lately has a tawny tinge
over two yearlings bending long
necks to nibble hillock bushes
finally separate from their doe
mother. A late hawk is circling
against the sky streaked lavender.
The breeze has quieted, vanished
into leaves that still stir a bit
like a cat turning round before
sleep. Distantly a car passes
and is gone. Night gradually
unrolls from the east where
the ocean slides up and down
the sand leaving seaweed tassels:
a perfect world for moments.
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good afternoon friends, here are some poems i think are wonderful and you may enjoy!
the lost women by lucille clifton
first thanksgiving by sharon olds
sometimes with one i love by walt whitman
the friend by marge piercy
america by tony hoagland
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Why Marry at All?
by Marge Piercy
Why mar what has grown up between the cracks
and flourished like a weed
that discovers itself to bear rugged
spikes of magenta blossoms in August,
ironweed sturdy and bold,
a perennial that endures winters to persist?
Why register with the state?
Why enlist in the legions of the respectable?
Why risk the whole apparatus of roles
and rules, of laws and liabilities?
Why license our bed at the foot
like our Datsun truck: will the mileage improve?
Why encumber our love with patriarchal
word stones, with the old armor
of husband and the corset stays
and the chains of wife? Marriage
meant buying a breeding womb
and sole claim to enforced sexual service.
Marriage has built boxes in which women
have burst their hearts sooner
than those walls; boxes of private
slow murder and the fading of the bloom
in the blood; boxes in which secret
bruises appear like toadstools in the morning.
But we cannot invent a language
of new grunts. We start where we find
ourselves, at this time and place.
Which is always the crossing of roads
that began beyond the earth’s curve
but whose destination we can now alter.
This is a public saying to all our friends
that we want to stay together. We want
to share our lives. We mean to pledge
ourselves through times of broken stone
and seasons of rose and ripe plum;
we have found out, we know, we want to continue.
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