make it rain on dem hoes: Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.After all, the sky...

So it’s past 3 in the morning.  Had a shitty hour to say the least, so now I’m drinking wine and reading poetry (yes that does sound slightly pathetic whatevs), but now I’m going to post a few poems I stumbled upon from a Vancouver based poet, Pat Lowther.  She was murdered back in the 70’s and I had no idea who she was until I bought this book, A Stone Diary from a thrift store.

DARK

I tell you the darkness comes down
like arrows and hunger
I tie knots in my hair
to remember other empires
The world falls through my forehead
resistlessly as rain

I must tell you I can not
always move with decorum
The darkness comes down like meteors
petals of hot black
I escape burning only because
I am the darkness

REFLECTING SUNGLASSES

Circles of sky and storefronts in my face-
look through me:
lattice of moving air chrome sunburst faces-
I’m a see-through woman
proof enough of the proposition that we’re all mostly empty space.
I swing along carrying tunnels of vision through the imaginary fabric of my brain.
Lean closer and you’ll see
you looking out
from me.

(Source: winterpalms)

There was a child in him -
dangling, hung loose
by a rope and tree. Supple nests
laid like sores, bursting
life, before him. Why hadn’t he
a thing to say, as though
the bark wasn’t enough
to make him feel
unwanted?

(Source: winterpalms)

I was a sailor and I

dove
into my
swallower,

you, a
gaping

sea-jaw - lusting

after my muscle-born ship.

Well look at you

now.

Dead before

I had a chance to

drown.

(Source: winterpalms)

and you
pulled your fingers
to my skin, like individuals
of war, grazing
their boots along, waiting
for a plunge.

(Source: winterpalms)

I felt filth like blankets.
Or, the manifestation of a womb,
culture-crazed as a poster peeling
by the front walls of your heaven’s
gate. I felt filth hugging the bags
of my eyes, like a baby’s toe
curling in the midst of a humbled father,
a patchwork of a mother and the strands
of her hair loose by her brow. I felt it,
all of it, pressing a hand against my chest.
I fell backwards
into it, all of it,
fucking me
blowing a hole
through my temple
and a grind inside the mountains
of my mind.

(Source: winterpalms)

If by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with wornout tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on”;

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And - which is more - you’ll be a Man my son!

(Source: winterpalms)