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Poet Sex

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[08 Oct 2007|05:16pm]

  Gertrude and I are like a poem; we rhyme.  Her angles fly through my mind at all the worst times, binding me to her blindly and unaware as she moves like a ship unmoored in some miserable country with some sad, dove-grey husband.  I found myself in a dark room, looking about me for a length of string and thinking Gertrude, if you were here my fingers would tug at the pearls around your neck until the cord broke and they flew to every corner.  Gertrude, if your name ever could be written next to mine I would write it as many times as my hands could bear.  But when I stood and found the doorknob it was only a boat store I was in after all, and shouldn't I have known.  Gertrude, your absence rends me.  I walked through the wide showroom and the stern angles of these machines reminded me of nothing so much as shoulders, pearl-white shoulders and I wanted to kiss them, wanted them to be anything but enamel and cold metal and gone.  What happened to us, I ought to have said.  Planes.  Islands.  Men in suits with only the faintest stripe in their weave, only the kindest pattern which one regarded up close and came to think on fondly, knowing not how little a part affection is to love, knowing nothing useful really.  I left the store and later found myself at home with a pot of tea and I have no idea how any of this came to be as it is, why my shoes are worn and you are gone. 
Listen at the window

[01 Oct 2007|01:23am]

I haven't had a good time in ... ages. I tried to fuck Philip Roth, and he wouldn't give me the time of day. God forbid a woman as beautiful as I am should need some companionship not limited to her cold fish husband once in a while, god forbid she should need a hand not her own. Well, I do need a hand, I need someplace to go, I've even got cigarettes and my profound company to offer, and apparently my wares are not to be sold at the pie fair. Well. Why do we even bother, Dame Sexton? Why do we even. Do we even, girls. Good night, Dame Sexton, good night, sweet prince.
Listen at the window

[01 Oct 2007|01:10am]

 There are so many things I want to say to you, and so many silences I want you to understand.  I want to lead you through the sunroom into the bed, where I will leave you, your legs hanging idly off the end, feet skitting back and forth on the wood as you become bored.  I have left you for now.  I have gone back through the sunroom to pour myself some coffee, but I have decided not to drink it.  Remember that day on the beach, when you tugged on my sweater and I wouldn't go into the water, and you took off everything and went in on your own?  That day was every part of us.  I stare out the long windows facing almost to the beach, and I slip my shoes off, each landing with a small pat on the blond wood.  I turn my head to you, where I know you still lie in the next room, and I call to you, telling you in the one word I give not to move.  Do not move.  I love you.  There is nothing we can say, really, to  move.  We will be immobile the rest of our lives, and perhaps we will be immobile together.  I open the freezer and remove a single cube of ice, hold it softening in my hand as I move again through the sun room and come to you, you, thank god there is you. 
Listen at the window

The Absent Secks [29 Jun 2007|03:48am]

Why the F is there no poet sex going on here??  I know VERY WELL that you slutty poets are having mad sex ALL THE TIME and I only wish you'd give us some GRAPHIC descriptions of it, for our reading pleasure.  You show me yours, and I'll show you someone else's.  Mrowr. 
Listen at the window

Where have all the poets gone? [15 Jul 2005|11:15pm]

Is there no poet sex? (I hate sex.) Not even Sexton?

You know, I'm the only one allowed to be a recluse. Except maybe this Emily Dickinson, who is kind of cute, even though I maintain that I am completely heterosexual and I hate sex.

(Em, I wear black, you wear white: bake me a loaf of bread and lower it from your window sometime? I'll send you some fruit. A peach, perhaps.)


Louise Glück, [Former] Poet Laureate
1Sounds in the Night?Listen at the window

Ummm... [02 Jun 2005|10:42pm]

What am I doing here? I am not interested in sex.

Icky horrible business.
2Sounds in the Night?Listen at the window

a poet run-in [13 May 2005|06:51pm]

OMG guys!! I was in Barnes & Noble just now, and James Tate totally got in front of me in line! What a jerk!

So naturally, I unbuttoned my blouse down to near indecency, spilled frappuccino on Mr. Tate's pants, and propositioned him.

I thought my sexy sexy plan was working, until I noticed that Tate's wife was right in front of him, and that he had jumped in front of me to join her in line. Oh, snap! Still, Jim autographed my copy of Remains of the Day (though I don't remember asking), and slipped me his phone number on the way out.


Love and kisses and dirty details later,
6Sounds in the Night?Listen at the window

[13 May 2005|03:07pm]


Time to get naked and party down!

7Sounds in the Night?Listen at the window

[11 May 2005|04:32pm]

Hey everybody! I just heard that _emilydickinson got accepted to poetsex!! That is so exciting! Welcome Emily!!

Welcome and lots of exclamation points. (Emily, I am so lonely. No one will talk to me. Do I smell funny? Will you smell me?)

Em -- may I call you Em? -- you should come over for a drink sometime. No funny stuff -- I'm not Elizabeth, after all! -- just a drink, and some conversation. I'll get out my collapsable silver travel cups; I know they fascinate people, especially you olde-time folk.

Well, have a super day, everyone!!

Hugs and kisses, X and O and X and more X,
14Sounds in the Night?Listen at the window

[10 Feb 2005|10:18pm]

You don't type well, Sharon. You, don't know where, to put the, commas, you sub-y little bitch. (Sorry Anne, I mean madame) Goddamnit, Sharon, pay attention!

Last night, when I was at Lowell's house, on his waterbed, I was really wasted (like always, you stupid bitch). But, what I do remember, is that you, Sharon Olds, were not there, because, number one, you are a big loser (*tear*). Number two, you never returned my phone call, because you turned your fancy cell phone off. (Just so you know, I was in the hospital having my second child, bitch). I know you weren't home tending the children, so you must have been with your husbend, having sex, which involved, uhhhh, tearing, cause that's what your poems are about. You cunt.

Wait...unless he was with my husband. Which would be hot. Naw, their pussies, and not in the good way.

Now I'm too wasted to continue dictating. Sharon, get on the bed.
Listen at the window

[03 Feb 2005|03:31pm]

Goddamnit, who let Lowell into the community? Pretentious bastard.

Louise, we need to have a conference about this.
4Sounds in the Night?Listen at the window

Hello [03 Feb 2005|08:11pm]

I would just like to thank the members of the community for allowing me in. It is a great honor, indeed.

For you all, I mean.

I'm off to bed now. Come along Liz.

No, Anne, you can't watch.
Listen at the window

I call it accomplishment. [28 Dec 2004|02:31am]

I loved once,
I loved twice,
easily three times I loved.

easily Plath too.

I have a room, a bed.
I have a bed, a vase
of flowers.

You three. In my bed. Now.


Louise Glück, [Former] Poet Laureate
Listen at the window

A first entry, a new enterprise [19 Dec 2004|08:22pm]

[ mood | satisfied ]

My, my, but this is an unattractive webpage you children have created. And who might be the culprit? Never mind; I've got more important things to tend to; Gluck's been pestering me to go out for coffee. I can't imagine what the woman wants. She must be pretty damn bored now that she's no longer poet laureate. All that free wine, now going to some guy from Iowa. It's a crying shame, isn't it?

Now I'll tell you about my day, in hopes of covering the ugliness of this naked page. I never thought I'd ever call something naked ugly, but it's all come together and happened here. This morning I woke in a daze on the second-floor futon. Gloria had gone -- I didn't know where or when -- and left me, crumpled covers and all. Sometimes I wonder about that woman. I quickly threw on a patterned dress and stepping out into the settling afternoon, white sand bristling with heat beneath my footsoles. This is a fine, fine country we've got here. And I've got a fine woman to share it with -- if only I could find her. I hummed freely and ran a hand over my hair, slightly damp from the evening's humid swell, as I slid on shoes and walked toward the market. 'Brisk' is such a ridiculous word to apply to oneself, isn't it? I didn't walk briskly. It was quick, it was purposed, it was monumental and insignificant. I do it every day. And besides, we're out of tomatoes. In the produce aisle I paused, fingering the dull, dented pomegranate skins which contain in them multitudes of complexity and raw mass, full of juice. Then I found Gloria, by the onions. We walked back together, ever so slowly, I holding a canvas of tomatoes, and Gloria smoothing a red pomegranate between her strong hands.

Well, that's about all you need to know for today. I'm going to go write powerful poetry, and I strongly suggest that you do the same.

Audre Lorde, who is not the poet laureate, and has never won a damn award in her life,
but is still magnificent in her own right

1Sounds in the Night?Listen at the window

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