I have been walking around with arms enflamed

My buzzing harks back to days past

Leave everything ragged

No one questions the start

Don’t Tell Them You’re Not the Center of the Universe

I am humble. I am the gold-standard of pleasing. I am monumental and un-sabotaged. My sweet defies the vinegar days and the bleached-out nights. I return to the day and weather whatever is worn.

Of all the magic tricks, of all the annoyances, of all the clutching, the wolf at my neck is obligated, not obliterated. She emerges. She falls in love. She settles on the wish that all lovers are not doomed. That all flickers are not dragging hopes.

Don’t tell them you’re not the center of the universe, because sometimes you are.  And while I am confessing,  all these rights trying not to be wrongs, all these fears holding back loves are just an ever-changing  tone. A vibration too high for our ears.

Maybe I am the center of the universe, ever-orbiting around a heart of gold.  A universe of one. Someday, I will bring you into my spin.

There needs to be a ground

To find. There needs to be a grounds

For finding a way up or out.

If there is a grounding-in

If there is a grounding out

Let it be so elaborate

That my skirt blows up

In a breeze, so still,

That you believe in magic

That you believe in the most elaborate of schemes

That the scheme of this life

Is a grounds for a plea.

So that the ground

We stand on leads to a higher landing

So that the whole of each half of my hand,

Each palm, could be held in the tightest grip

Grounding this in an earth that is still alive

With greens and reds, still alive in our

Footfalls and tears.

How many ask for this?

The Greatest

The greatest harvest has been tucked in, buried. Some would say marooned, gathering toward ambition. Is it a weak purpose, or a somehow lodging of a brief changing world?

The greatest harvest of my life is sun-plucked and drained.  Not great. Not pert. It is still enfolded, still orbit-spun, still defeating its surface. 

We travel at so many speeds. We are harvesting every possible moment.  I am a field of knowings; a possible sky. We compete with sound and heaven.  So much time passes through our points. So much time. It is hard to know where our feet actually land.

The fast-forwards burnish a haunting beat; a deep thrust of heart and breath. The tragic nevers we try to restructure. This startling, that wedge of change, consider it. Consider the flooding over as the most exquisite tremor you feel today. The world outside; this is all the greatest. 

+ / This is a poured-truth dressed in memory / and cut down; this is a matter ruff; a gray middle

Source: The Ambassadors — Part 5 by Leah Umansky : Poetry Magazine

It’s the last day of March. Check out the Reading List of POETRY MAGAZINE’S March contributors. I mentioned a few books I’m reading and looking forward to read.  This is a good way to lead into April  – National Poetry Month!

The Reading List is a feature of Poetry magazine’s Editors’ Blog. This month contributors to the March 2016 issue share some books that held their interest. Francisco Aragón Christopher Sindt’s The Bodies is the work of a poet from Northern California, which is my way of saying: it feeds from the multiple aesthetics that have flourished there.  It […]

Source: Reading List: March 2016