Allison Titus and Helena Mesa (Part 2 of 2)

Cleveland State University Poetry Center—2012

Allison Titus is the author of SUM OF EVERY LOST SHIP (Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 2009) and the chapbook INSTRUCTIONS FROM THE NARWHAL, which won the Bateau Press BOOM Chapbook Prize.She is also the recipient of an NEA Fellowship.

Helena Mesa is the author of HORSE DANCE UNDERWATER (Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 2009). She is the co-editor of the essay anthology MENTOR AND MUSE: ESSAYS FROM POETS TO POETS. Mesa was a 2010 Residency Recipient from Writers in the Heartland.

Allison Titus and Helena Mesa (Part 1 of 2)

Cleveland University Poetry Center—2012

Allison Titus is the author of SUM OF EVERY LOST SHIP (Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 2009) and the chapbook INSTRUCTIONS FROM THE NARWHAL, which won the Bateau Press BOOM Chapbook Prize. She is also the recipient of an NEA Fellowship.

Helena Mesa is the author of HORSE DANCE UNDERWATER (Cleveland State University Poetry Center, 2009). She is the co-editor of the essay anthology MENTOR AND MUSE: ESSAYS FROM POETS TO POETS. Mesa was a 2010 Residency Recipient from Writers in the Heartland.

Celibacy at Twenty

apoemaday:

by Sharon Olds

After I broke up with someone,
or someone with me, days would go by,
nights, weeks, soon it would be months since I had
touched anyone. i would move as little
as possible, the air seemed to press on my skin, my
breasts like something broken open, un-
capped and not covered, the buds floated in the
center at the front, if I turned a corner too
fast I would almost come. Swollen,
walking like someone carrying something
filled to the brim, the lip of the liquid
rocking, taut, at the edge, at the top—
and at times, in the shower, no matter how quickly
I washed I’d be over the top in seconds,
and then the loneliness, which had felt enormous,
would be begin to grow, easily, rapidly,
triple, sextuple, dodecatuple,
the palm fronds and camellia buds bent
double under a campus sky of iron.
Later, when the next first kiss would come,
it would shock me, the size and power of happiness,
and yet it was familiar—lips aching and
pulling, hands and feet going numb, I’d be
trying not to moan, streaming slowly
across the arc of the sky— it was always
a return, the face in the dashlight closer
and closer, like the approaching earth,
until it is all you can see. Each time,
I wanted to be coming home
to stay. But every time I went
from months of hunger to those first kisses,
soon there were the last kisses, and I
felt I stood outside of life, held
back— but no one was holding me, I was
waiting, very near the human,
my violence uncommitted, I was
saving it. Once I stripped and
entered the pit I did not want ever to come up out of it.

incidentalcomics:

Just a reminder to play Haruki Murakami Bingo today - “Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage” is out in the US! 

The bingo board photos and handmade pieces are courtesy of Los Angeles-based painter (and Murakami/Incidental Comics reader) Hunter Nesbitt. Thanks Hunter!

(via politicsprose)

Just saw him perform this. The old lady blocking my view left when he finished.

melllll582:

Fuck Me like Being Born (after Ruth Schwartz) by Sean Thomas Dougherty,

Fuck me like a roller coaster ride in summer,
or a Ferris Wheel, rising over the body’s harbour, fuck me starstruck & glittery & dumb.

Fuck me for breakfast.

Fuck me like the apple tree in bloom, the yard filled with petals.
Fuck me like the mail woman delivering a hundred acceptance letters that say:
We love your work & want to publish you in every issue
for the rest of your life & put your picture on the cover
of TV Guide like Oprah & send you on talk shows
to answer questions like “why do you think
all the really GREAT poets commit suicide?”


Fuck me weeping & wet, shifting & sanguine, rouged and religious.

Fuck me for dinner.

Fuck me holy, wearing rosaries, singing to Yoruban deities.

Fuck me laid back like reading
the New York Sunday Times sipping coffee, after fucking
all night.

Fuck me like licking the spoon.

Fuck me like this poem almost rhymes.

Fuck me raucus & raging, dripping like Pollack with paint.

Fuck me so I remember

those two slow children I saw playing checkers:

How the one touched the other on the cheek & said, You win.

Fuck me that tender.

Fuck me perennial. Yes, fuck me perennial, millennial. Fuck me like you’re mental. Fuck me sentimental.

Fuck me like a Lincoln Continental, pimped out, slow & low. Fuck me with sequins & sangria.

Fuck me homeless & heartbroken, shapeshifted & celebrated.

Fuck me like the rain washing us clean.

Fuck me like all those fucked up Giant cartoons in the Thanksgiving day parade bobbing in a strong wind.

Fuck me like how Bush fucked us all & doesn’t even kiss.

Fuck me with mangoes in your mouth, let the pulp slip sticky between our tongues,

for the neighbors downstairs are arguing again.
Fuck me so loud & hard & full of joy perhaps they will hear

& remember the shape of their two bodies & its sober song.

On the first day of this astonished world.

Fuck me like being born.