According to Poets.org, yesterday (or today–I’m always late because of my predilection for the nocturnal life) was Poem In Your Pocket Day, which you celebrate by keeping a poem in your pocket and sharing it with friends. Despite the fact that I’m probably delayed, I’m still game for celebrating it, but the problem is that I have more poems than pockets, and I can’t choose just one to share, since all are amazing and pretty much also speak to me right now.
To solve my dilemma, I’ve decided to post links to all of my pocket-poems here. And, since I fancy myself a poet, at least two of them are mine.
NC’s Pocket Poems Playlist:
T.S. Eliot – The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
“Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.”
Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta – The World is Where You’re Not
[No link available, so I’ll post the whole poem here. The breaks are my own as I haven’t seen the original breaks, but one huge chunk of text looked too cluttered. In BOLD are my favorite lines.]
The garbage truck collects
a wail of arpeggios, scale
of mistakes the mother
corrects with Again,
and the child begins.
Sunlight. The children
take turns on their bikes,
their arcane surrogates
sit by the curb,
slippers pursed tightly between
In an hour or so,
it’s dinnertime, each child
called in by nightly rote:
no warning scares.
Here I am, father,
looking out at the low
suburban gables on Norman St.
Outside it’s never dark:
clear sky lit not by stars
but news of stars, a shining
lapse as wide and far
saudade means “longing for
a person who has been lost.”
Meaning, “to know the beloved will never return.”
Meaning, when you wince
as you look at the stars, it isn’t
the light of the fire that burns.
Favorite Lines: The whole poem is amazing.
Probably the poem I quote the most. “I think I made you up inside my head.” is pretty much the mantra of my love-life, so far. (I know, what love life?)
“I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.) “
Favorite Lines: Again, the whole poem is precious. Pocket-sized, too!
I’ll admit I took this one a bit out of context. It’s a love poem, but the lines I love the most fit the broken-hearted too.
“…everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, lights, metals,
were little boats
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.”
As promised, two of my own. All rights reserved; just a reminder.
First, something that I wrote as someone else, about someone that ‘someone else’ loved. I wrote it long ago, but since then it’s become one of my favorites, and now that I read it, I feel like I wrote it for me, too. (Though not, of course, about the same person. More in the general sense.)
Cokebottle eyes hungrily eat
his similes. Her heart is whirring.
Stomach butterflying, flutters causing
on his side of the world he is
Leaping, rather, falling, she
he will lay her
open on some sonnet.
The metaphors are scandalized.
Intellectual more potent than asexual
is the onomatopoeia
of his laugh
is “eureka.” He shudders.
She quotes lines she hopes
are about her
hair, the tempting outline of her
Sometimes, she comes to nothing:
dies when good lines turn into
thrusting spear into Avila
(“Bean.” she says. The wrong joke.
He laughs, awkward
She watches his wet lips wriggle
like a woman’s
She isn’t much of a siren.
She knows that
nothing about her can
like he says she does. She’d blow
over with her verses, but
she has none…
…except that he makes her fevers dream.
Finally, here’s a poem that answers a question I often get: “What kind of guys do you like?” My answer? A “Magic Man.”
There’s blood in my cheeks: it’s a blush.
The feeling is foreign.
So far it’s pleasant, though somewhere I recall
that this has happened before, unwisely.
So I ask you, magic man, to dazzle me.
Make stars appear in my eyes tonight.
Blind me from any foolish recollection.
Help me forget there were ever enchanters,
wolves in winsome clothing,
frogs I thought were princes.
I’m not asking for forever, just eternity.
Serve me a sliver that I can take home
with me, to warm me.
Later, alone, in my childhood bed,
I’ll re-cast your spells, rehearse them
in my head.
That’s it for my pocket poetry! Hope you enjoyed!