There is no Prince

Susan Daniels Poetry

You are no prince riding to my rescue.
The castle is long breached, and I still sleep,
covered over by nettles, or roses–
it does not matter which, as long as there is that sting
to thread blood in cursive across skin,
a language of no, though it is unspoken
and sounded in bloom.

Bring me no roses, as I cannot hold
their color of loss, of remembering
the hot metal stink of what drives us,

I will save myself from them, from us,
from you; broken glass
the only vase I own.

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Stacie Cassarino: Summer Solstice

I wanted to see where beauty comes from
without you in the world, hauling my heart
across sixty acres of northeast meadow,
my pockets filling with flowers.
Then I remembered,
it’s you I miss in the brightness
and body of every living name:
rattlebox, yarrow, wild vetch.
You are the green wonder of June,
root and quasar, the thirst for salt.
When I finally understand that people fail
at love, what is left but cinquefoil, thistle,
the paper wings of the dragonfly
aeroplaning the soul with a sudden blue hilarity?
If I get the story right, desire is continuous,
equatorial. There is still so much
I want to know: what you believe
can never be removed from us,
what you dreamed on Walnut Street
in the unanswerable dark of your childhood,
learning pleasure on your own.
Tell me our story: are we impetuous,
are we kind to each other, do we surrender
to what the mind cannot think past?
Where is the evidence I will learn
to be good at loving?
The black dog orbits the horseshoe pond
for treefrogs in their plangent emergencies.
There are violet hills,
there is the covenant of duskbirds.
The moon comes over the mountain
like a big peach, and I want to tell you
what I couldn’t say the night we rushed
North, how I love the seriousness of your fingers
and the way you go into yourself,
calling my half-name like a secret.
I stand between taproot and treespire.
Here is the compass rose
to help me live through this.
Here are twelve ways of knowing
what blooms even in the blindness
of such longing. Yellow oxeye,
viper’s bugloss with its set of pink arms
pleading do not forget me.
We hunger for eloquence.
We measure the isopleths.
I am visiting my life with reckless plenitude.
The air is fragrant with tiny strawberries.
Fireflies turn on their electric wills:
an effulgence. Let me come back
whole, let me remember how to touch you
before it is too late.

The Witch Doctor



And so he extracted his pound of flesh
Exacting his incisions
With the tender care
Of a learned man
Motions so expertly recited
I daresay I felt nothing
save for the pressure of his hand
Upon my wound
And the floating dream
Of the temporary drug
Expanding my lungs
Coursing through my veins
A barrier between reality and pain
Leaving me
With fluttering eyelids
Butterflies in a colored fog
And the disquietude of an invasion
The remnants of which are
A barely discernible scar
Upon the site of excavation
A necessary exchange
An empty chasm
Where once was disease
And a debt to the witch doctor
That can never be repaid

My mistress burns – a sonnet


Björn Rudbergs writings

you conquer woods – entrap the cloudy skies
with fingers stretched you carve my burning skin
I open up like autumn-ripened cowpeas skive
our breathing’s heavy as we yearn for sin
you finger-paint in sanguine ecstasy
with laughter hurled at moon-man’s anguished face
I serve you tender lambskin empathy
while you devour our love in famished haste
but when your ember dies in whiffs of ash
I desert-sit beneath a burning sun
while clouds electrify my swiftest flash
a craving dies to vulture’s daring stunts
my only solace is that spring returns
reborn again like Phoenix rise and burns

Naked man and woman by Pablo PicassoNaked man and woman by Pablo Picasso
A poem written at the end of spring. I still try to work on using the effect of slanted rhymes.

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