the heavy pressure
of the presence of your body in the room
moving
O love,
is the end of my
imaginings
this late afternoon
feeling again at this window
the sensation of weight received
in that displacement
the small waves
lapping against me
constantly
Paul Blackburn
something that strikes me as quite relevant today: from Paul Blackburn
“. . .. . . You
put that much life in it, baby,
you know you can’t win . . .”
The Fastness by Paul Blackburn
To stand there in the dimness with a robe on
I shake loose the feelings your eyes have
under your lids in a moment of intimacy
another dim time wheeling over you, it’s
no business of mine
what you wear under your robe
or what the hour is.
And don’t tell me,
your eyes
keep saying that.
for Christopher at THe Brown Bag Special: a poem about finding doors: The Matchbook Poem by Paul Blackburn
BUT WHY do you go to the wall?
WHY does he go to the wall?
You go to the
wall because
that’s where the door is
maybe.
Paul Blackburn on the qualifications of a translator
He must be willing (& able) to let another man’s life enter his own deeply enough to become some permanent part of his original author. He should be patient, persistent, slightly schizoid, a hard critic, a brilliant editor, and have an independent income.
from Halfway Down The Coast by Paul Blackburn
And love? What is that
many-faceted mother?
VENUS by Paul Blackburn
This star, see,
she comes up and leaves
a track in the sea.
Whatcha gonna do, swim
down that track or
drown in the sea?
BK. OF NUMBERS by Paul Blackburn
My heart is 3 .7 . 9
3 orifices
7 mountains
9 seas
You
build these 3. 7. 9. down into me
into I
and dance and swell in my mind
and dance and swell. . . .
ABRI: COTE D’AMOUR by Paul Blackburn
I am an unquiet bird
My head falls forward with fatigue at evening
wings folded
several successes several failures, yes
it’s been a long loveless day
If I’d hunted the stones to the south
. .(the stone outside us is beauty
I might have done better
Well
tomorrow,
no matter, tomorrow. . .
. .(and the stone within us is love
. . . .both
stone will bust the beak
or break the foot or the wing
there is no other way to live
I suppose we are all Orpheus if we would
. .No, I’m not
dozing or dreaming of home
. .I am home.
REMAINS OF AN AFTERNOON by Paul Blackburn
Flick of perfume, slight, and faintly bitter
on my wrist, where her hand had rested
Two wrist-bones and the soft thud of veins
printed on the hard flesh of her palm
The drinks
finished but untasted
Leonard Durso 