We belong to the sound of the words we've both fallen under.

[raybear]

C'mon, people, I know I buried the request in the middle of a not-so-exciting livejournal entry, but I was going bigfatmama style. So I'll ask again:

Recommend me a poet! I'm fairly ignorant. So make it "poetry for people who don't like poetry" or something. I dig narrative poems, but it's not essential. Seriously, the only books of poetry I have in my collection are Pablo Neruda, John Wieners, Marianne Moore, and Billy Collins. Yeah, I know, Billy Collins, don't cringe, but I really do love Picnic, Lightning. Frank O'Hara is coming in the mail, but I need something in the meantime. Oh, and Virginia Hamilton Adair, Ants on the Melon, I have that.

Now's your chance! I'm a fiction writer showing an interest in poetry that's not ridicule or disdain! Help me!

Comments

[rahaeli.livejournal.com]

here, have my favorite bit, from the second elegy:

Every angel terrifies. Still, though I know
how almost-deadly you are, you birds of the soul,
I call out to you. Whatever happened to the days
of Tobias, when one of the most radiant of you
stood in the simple doorway, only slightly disguised
for the trip, and didn't seem frightening at all?
The young man peeked out, curious,
and mistook you for just another young man.
But if that same angel today, threatening,
should take even a step from behind the stars
and move in our direction, the hammering
of our own hearts would kill us. Who are you?
Fortunate firstborns, favorites of creation,
mountain ranges whose peaks were reddened
by the first morning, pollen of a blossoming God,
hinges of light, corridors stairways thrones
and spaces constructed of sheer existence,
shields of delight, roaring storms of rapture,
and suddenly, singly, mirrors, drawing back
into their faces the very beauty they've spilt.

[freakysparks.livejournal.com]

I am in love.