You are viewing rozk

Silence Exile and Crumpets
[Most Recent Entries] [Calendar View] [Friends]

Below are the 20 most recent journal entries recorded in Roz Kaveney's LiveJournal:

    [ << Previous 20 ]
    Wednesday, March 19th, 2014
    12:07 am

    I sometimes think that I am done with lust
    or lust is done with me. If she should tweak
    my nipple, I would bruise there for a week.
    My cunt is old, tight scarred and full of dust

    that once would flow. And there's a small red sore
    recurs and itches in my stomach fold.
    I use a cream on it. I am so old
    that I need help when rising from the floor

    and when I dance, I crumple at one knee,
    But have the poet's privilege. I get
    teasing from muses for a decade yet.
    I am not done with them, nor they with me.

    I see sweet mischief settled in her eyes
    Dashes in bars, wraps legs around my thighs.
    Monday, March 17th, 2014
    1:58 pm
    My statement to Sarah Ditum about No Platforming and Censorship
    You would, I trust, accept that such places as universities are supposed to be safe spaces that have a duty of care to their students. Hate speech is, almost by definition, something which cannot be allowed in a safe space. Many other places wish to define themselves as safe spaces for various groups - the Royal Vauxhall Tavern has generally aimed at being a safe space for all LGBT people. Denying people particular platforms is not censoring them, because they are free to find other places from which they can speak, unless their speech has been declared illegal.

    There is thus no contradiction whatever between support for no-platforming people and opposition to censorship, especially when the person no-platformed has endless other platforms from which to express their views. Most hate speech aims to silence either directly or by denying access - hate speech censors.

    I have no reason to hold you personally responsible for anything that has happened in the past, but protest against no-plaforming by groups that have regularly done their best actually to silence other groups when they have had the power to do so are hypocritical at best.
    Friday, March 14th, 2014
    1:05 am

    Muse is my croupier. Who deals no card
    sets no wheel spinning. Yet I stake my heart
    each moment she is there. When we're apart
    I feel the gambler's hunger. It is hard

    to keep my tells from showing in my face.
    We play. I can't foresee which move she'll make
    but it's her board, her table. One mistake
    could lose the game. It's only by her grace

    we are still playing. Poem against smile
    we wager precious things that have no cost.
    She cannot lose. I win, not having lost
    we are still here at table all this while

    From other games, this is the one we choose
    where time itself is all that we can lose
    Thursday, March 13th, 2014
    1:04 am
    And a poem for my younger self

    Like snake that sloughs off skin against a stone
    we feel it loosen, tear a little. Scratch.
    There is a thought that we must sometimes catch
    and hold a little pressed against the bone

    that cages head or heart. It is not true
    we won't get free. The tatters that we wear
    will fray away. Disposable as hair
    we wind round finger, drop into the loo

    and flush away. The itching drives you mad
    the tatters pull away like scab from knee
    when you were five – and this was true for me
    will be for you. Night terrors you have had

    bound trapped disgusting never free – scales, dust.
    Raw pink beneath. Believe this, love – you must.
    12:38 am
    New sort of love poem

    Love's fever has burned through: I convalesce.
    Drink the thin broth of heart-ease, that was ache,
    Boiled from my bones and blood. Somehow we make
    something from feelings as they evanesce

    as steam. We scrape the scum off with a spoon.
    discard, add salt to wounds. The sting's the cure,
    the pain's the healing. Full of doubt be sure
    that in love turns to love, perhaps quite soon.

    You peck my pale no longer burning face,
    visit with grapes. Suggest I breathe fresh air.
    Take me from sickroom. Drive me fast to where
    Your small light shows my way to some high place

    I see picked out in gold and near-black grays
    some promised city glimmers in the haze.
    Friday, February 14th, 2014
    11:46 am
    And for Valentine's day

    'You say there is a pounding in your brain,
    an aching hunger; it's not in your charts
    when we examine you. And broken hearts
    are physically quite sound. You say there's pain

    and yet you function perfectly – in flame
    you burn – there is no fever and your tongue
    is moist that Would be dry. I know you're young
    and adolescence makes you prone. The same

    is true of other madnesses. We'll talk
    next week of medication that will cure
    this sickness. In the meantime I am sure
    you would be better for a good long walk.'

    She speaks and then stares in her patients eyes,
    feels heartache she cannot pathologize.
    Wednesday, February 5th, 2014
    7:16 pm
    Not the last, but a closure poem

    These poems are the contract with my Muse
    Both goddess and the one for whom I yearn -
    in tousled sheets unfaithfully I burn.
    I am the suitor whom she will not choose

    Nor will pursue her. I know how this goes.
    Less wise, when young, less kind and far less just
    I broke an older lover's heart. We must
    pay in full measure bitterness and woes

    that we inflicted. Rather be aware
    of prudence, stay at least as far away
    as lets me write. It is with words I pay
    for past unkindness. And sometimes I dare

    to touch my Muse's hand in crowded bars
    and ask permission to show you my scars.
    And kiss her cheek perhaps, but not her lips.
    Protect my heart from passion, heal the rips

    that other loves have clawed there. Words assuage
    bad memories. Restraint's the priest whose oil
    will calm love's cauldron when it's at a boil -
    lead heart to death perhaps. Don Cupid's rage

    kills the heart faster, hardens it. I kneel
    pray Mother Venus mercy. Muse protects
    me and I pay her wage in texts
    of love controlled. The Muse has stamped her seal

    on this the contract. Never hope. The worse
    Thing is to haggle. Kissed cheek,touch of hand
    is all I need. Before the Muse I stand
    praise her and love. Immortal in my verse.
    Tuesday, February 4th, 2014
    11:38 pm

    My poems are not what at first was meant.
    The stubborn words and rhymes pull me away
    from what at first I thought I wished to say.
    What's said is almost that, but curved and bent

    pulled firm and taut. The arrow from the bow
    of words flies clear and hits a target, not
    the one intended but a lovely shot
    that ends precisely where it needs to go.

    And love's the same; it hurts to be pulled tense
    by rules, your other loves, days we don't speak
    because of colds or jealousy. I'm weak
    but somehow manage turn pain into sense.

    Get past the lust you see burn in my eyes.
    No love or poems without sacrifice.
    5:11 pm
    A quicky before going out
    Anticipation is love's better part
    that never disappoints, can never fade
    because unclimaxed. It remains afraid
    that fear adds urgency to beating heart

    to shuddering cunt. I know the taste of skin
    your hand or cheek or neck, but not your thigh
    against mine, or the blinking of your eye
    on the next pillow; know the mischief grin

    you tease your lovers with. Have stroked your hair.
    There may be nothing more. This is enough
    for poetry is made of flimsy stuff,
    of hints and promises. It may not bear

    wet heat, fingers inside, sweat pooled on small
    of back, dark harmonies that peak then fall.
    Monday, February 3rd, 2014
    11:32 pm
    This took ages to write - had to tear it down over and over

    I love in you selves that I was, might be,
    or might have been if things were otherwise,
    that are so you, since sometimes in your eyes
    I see a mirror. To infinity

    it stretches, features morphing into mine
    and back again. Oh love, we're not the same.
    I never, holding you, scream my own name
    in ecstasy, confused, but as we twine

    around each other's lives, we reminisce.
    I say 'you did that too? Of course you did.'
    Already sharing secrets we both hid.
    Skin dust that we exhange each time we kiss

    is not more intimate. Love, sister, friend.
    The faces in the mirror have no end.
    12:07 am
    A third and then bed

    I watch the night. Can see, not tell, the stars
    like nameless beads. And now the moon is set.
    All nights are nights without her. I forget
    as hours pass in rain the splash of cars

    marks that I do not weep and yet that sound
    so lachrymose so long as they recede
    like tides and years. There's something that I need
    more than her lips, more than her legs around

    my aching waist. Some way of stretching joy
    each moment that I touch her hand or tease
    HER with these songs. Oh gentle goddess please
    assure me I am something more than toy

    to her , make each kiss, every lonely tear
    eternal truth all lovers will revere
    Sunday, February 2nd, 2014
    11:37 pm
    I should have written this a couple of weeks ago..

    We lie so much, pretending to be chaste.
    No quiver and no blush. We keep our face
    poker chip cold, sat in the sticky place
    our heart's become. And then we come unlaced.

    Something undoes us. It might be a cake
    a cookie. Tristan standing on the deck
    sipped knowing at the drink that meant his wreck
    and she drank too. So that a heart can break

    a clit can sob, we eat or drink small death
    in memory of love. Something that's true.
    It stops me lying when I'm holding you
    for moments I am blushing short of breath

    as limits break and promises go dumb
    I tell the silent truth and gasping come.
    10:58 pm
    Evening's first poem - more on the way

    Minutes and decades on their mayfly wings
    I do not notice them until the sand
    runs out. Another red bill in my hand
    that I must pay. Each nightingale that sings

    a different generation. Memory
    says there were more birds once but still I hear
    those notes, that hold me, still. A different year
    a different lover. Or perhaps it's me.

    How could I tell if it is I that change?
    Some things are constant in me, but my heart
    falls for each beauty, tender at the start
    then bittersweet then doomed. I must arrange

    these things thus. Die for love, and am reborn,
    pressing my heart blood from each passing thorn.
    12:59 am
    I may have done myself a mischief

    The metaphors of which our life is made
    shift underfoot like boats that pull from shore.
    My hand that broke once bangs against a floor
    and aches again like heart. Pain is delayed

    until we know what's break, and what is bruise.
    Hopes can be lies, but so are many fears.
    You strap up, wear the brace, keep it for years.
    It's when loss is accepted that I lose.

    Smashed bone is simple true, but love is mist
    that swirls and changes. Breath your passion deep.
    It will not choke you. Sometimes, half-asleep,
    you trust and smile. But then an aching wrist

    wakes you a little. There's a nagging pain
    sweet goddess have I broken it again?
    Saturday, February 1st, 2014
    1:00 am
    A metaphor I think works

    I nearly lost my sight, and now it's clear.
    The lines and blurs are gone. Laser and knife
    lens changed for plastic. Never in my life
    had I seen birds in trees. There is a fear

    that I had to this moment, cut away
    to clarity. Your head touches my skin
    a little pressure. You lean further in
    no random touch. It's not the words you say

    a little mocking, softly, but the trust
    more than soft hair on bare arm as you lean.
    Catch breath a little. This could always mean
    less than I think or hope, but hope I must.

    You tease the fear away. I am not wrong.
    I see as well as hear sharp joyous song.
    Thursday, January 30th, 2014
    10:48 pm
    This one based on conversations

    Love is the fastest car, in which I ride,
    your passenger. Your hands are on the wheel.
    Gear shifting. And the pressure that I feel
    pushes me backwards. On the left hand side

    you signal, and then turn. We pick up speed
    exhilarating and the hip-hop beat
    blares from your speakers. Lever pulls my seat
    back and I stretch and yawn. No more we need

    than this. 365 horsepower,rear wheel drive,
    traction control off, open window air
    buffets my face, plays havoc with your hair.
    Not quite like sex, yet near it, we contrive

    auto-eroticism. Click my belt
    around me. Will controlling what I've felt.
    Wednesday, January 29th, 2014
    10:36 pm

    Love in the right way. Love her, watching her
    that she loves more than you, loves you as well.
    Let fools compare sweet jealousy to hell.
    A perfect love, though hard, will still prefer

    her happiness to yours, find yours in theirs.
    And do not be pretentious – their love's hot
    to watch, and makes her kind to you. It's not
    some saintly and unselfish love, compares

    its options, is pragmatic. Slowly, weigh
    your chances, your desires, and what is right.
    Then kiss them both, and wish them a good night.
    This love for theirs will last more than a day

    and be loved back. And if this is a sin
    it's one you share with Strauss's Marschallin...
    12:27 am

    We do not think of lips nearly enough.
    Of how a kiss comes close to break your heart
    when loving ends, yet also at its start.
    Kiss fingertip, kiss down almost to cuff

    and round the wrist, tell fortunes on the palm,
    and gently bruise the lips against her rings.
    This is just one of all the many things
    kissing can be. It is the gentlest harm

    that we can do. - And yet the Judas kiss
    betray one love perhaps, or maybe five
    will watch and worry. Memory will survive
    not just of touch and smell. Thought during this

    cold yet in love. Fuck's frenzy once complete
    leaves blanks. In twenty years, my kiss still sweet.
    Tuesday, January 28th, 2014
    12:59 am

    We walk a boundary. Friendship and lust
    and love are different things, sometimes the same
    perhaps a fourth thing with as yet no name.
    We talk and we consent and start to trust.

    Kissing your cheek, your neck. There's something sweet
    flavour or scent. The texture of your hair
    reminds me of things lost, things never there
    before but needed. As it is, complete

    not steps along some way. A finger's touch -
    I shudder and you twine into my waist
    look up and smile, amused. This is quite chaste
    in many ways. And more would be too much.

    Time takes so much that it will not replace
    The years have brought me here, to kiss your face.
    Monday, January 27th, 2014
    12:55 am
    A new poem

    There are no rules. There must be rules. Our dance
    hand touches hand withdraws. Eyelash on cheek
    Diffident. I once knew, forgot, my Greek
    Have to relearn this language of romance

    Archaic yet new-minted. Dreams that fade
    in halflight scrawl graffiti in tired eyes
    deciphered dusty subtext of your sighs
    and whispers. We negotiate a trade

    in glances slyness charm, in words that slink
    like urban foxes, seen a second, gone
    nervous proud flirting. Both of us will run
    from sight, and then be there, next time we blink.

    I step you weave around. Turn pirouette
    These gestures mean themselves, no more. And yet...
[ << Previous 20 ]
Glamourous Rags   About