Friday, January 27, 2006

Punk Rock Poetry Fridays

for poems with grrr

Louise Glück

It is not the moon, I tell you.
It is these flowers
lighting the yard.

I hate them.
I hate them as I hate sex,
the man's mouth
sealing my mouth, the man's
paralyzing body--

and the cry that always escapes,
the low, humiliating
premise of union--

In my mind tonight
I hear the question and pursuing answer
fused in one sound
that mounts and mounts and then
is split into the old selves,
the tired antagonisms. Do you see?
We were made fools of.
And the scent of mock orange
drifts through the window.

How can I rest?
How can I be content
while there is still
that odor in the world?


Jenny said...

God, that brings back memories.

femme feral said...

I know! I thought of you when I posted it. I miss you.

EL said...

This poem was my big college turn-on to poetry- so shocking at the time. Love it and hadn't read it for ages.