POETICALLY SPEAKING: The Wise By Countee Cullen

THE WISE

Dead men are wisest, for they know
How far the roots of flowers go,
How long a seed must rot to grow.

Dead men alone bear frost and rain
On throbless heart and heatless brain,
And feel no stir of joy or pain.

Dead men alone are satiate;
They sleep and dream and have no weight,
To curb their rest, of love or hate.

Strange, men should flee their company,
Or think me strange who long to be
Wrapped in their cool immunity.

Written by Countée Cullen (1903-1946)

 

*We love the poetic genius like Cullen.  He's one that was truly in love with his words*

SPICY LIT NIGHT CAP! MUSIC PLAY: "Sending My Love!"

SENDING MY LOVE BY: Zhane

Enjoy!




Cherries An Strawberries
*Literary Spice That's Oh So Nice*

SPICY LIT NIGHT CAP! MUSIC PLAY: "My Cryin Blues"

MY CRYIN BLUES BY: Davina




Cherries And Strawberries
*Literary Spice That's Oh So Nice*

SPICY LIT NIGHT CAP! SEXY MUSIC PLAY: "Milk And Honey"

MILK AND HONEY BY: Goapele

Check this out for a "spicy lit night cap."





Need we say more...


Cherries And Strawberries
*Literary Spice That's Oh So Nice*

SPICY LIT NIGHT CAP! Poetry Play: A Garden!

A GARDEN BY: H.P. Lovecraft

There’s an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams,
Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams;
Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey,
And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday.
There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there’s moss about the pool,
And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool:
In the silent sunken pathways springs an herbage sparse and spare,
Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air.
There is not a living creature in the lonely space around,
And the hedge-encompass’d quiet never echoes to a sound.
As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find
When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind;
I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more,
As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before.
Then a sadness settles o’er me, and a tremor seems to start:
For I know the flow’rs are shrivell’d hopes—the garden is my heart!

By: Cherries And Strawberries
*Literary Spice That's Oh So Nice*

SPICY LIT NIGHT CAP! Poetry Play: O Breath!

O Breath By: Elizabeth Bishop

Beneath that loved and celebrated breast,
silent, bored really blindly veined,
grieves, maybe lives and lets
live, passes bets,
something moving but invisibly,
and with what clamor why restrained
I cannot fathom even a ripple.
(See the thin flying of nine black hairs
four around one five the other nipple,
flying almost intolerably on your own breath).
Equivocal, but what we have in common's   bound to be there,
whatever we must own equivalents for,
something that maybe I could bargain with
and make a separate peace beneath
within if never with.
 

 





By: Cherries and Strawberries
*Literary Spice That's Oh So Nice*

SPICY LIT NIGHT CAP! Poetry Play: "The Ballad Of The Lonely Masturbator!"

THE BALLAD OF THE LONELY MASTURBATOR BY: ANNE SEXTON

The end of the affair is always death.
She's my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Finger to finger, now she's mine.
She's not too far. She's my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute's speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

She took you the way a women takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today's paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.

The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.

At night, alone, I marry the bed.

By: Cherries and Strawberries
*Literary Spice That's Oh So Nice*