Natalie Kane

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Happy Birthday Frank! (Thanks for reminding me A)
StepsFRANK O’HARAHow funny you are today New Yorklike Ginger Rogers in Swingtimeand St. Bridget’s steeple leaning a little to the lefthere I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days(I got tired of D-days) and blue you there stillaccepts me foolish and freeall I want is a room up thereand you in itand even the traffic halt so thick is a wayfor people to rub up against each otherand when their surgical appliances lockthey stay togetherfor the rest of the day (what a day)I go by to check a slide and I saythat painting’s not so bluewhere’s Lana Turnershe’s out eatingand Garbo’s backstage at the Meteveryone’s taking their coat offso they can show a rib-cage to the rib-watchersand the park’s full of dancers with their tights and shoesin little bagswho are often mistaken for worker-outers at the West Side Ywhy notthe Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they wonand in a sense we’re all winningwe’re alivethe apartment was vacated by a gay couplewho moved to the country for funthey moved a day too sooneven the stabbings are helping the population explosionthough in the wrong countryand all those liars have left the UNthe Seagram Building’s no longer rivalled in interestnot that we need liquor (we just like it)and the little box is out on the sidewalknext to the delicatessenso the old man can sit on it and drink beerand get knocked off it by his wife later in the daywhile the sun is still shiningoh god it’s wonderfulto get out of bedand drink too much coffeeand smoke too many cigarettesand love you so much 
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Happy Birthday Frank! (Thanks for reminding me A)

Steps
FRANK O’HARA

How funny you are today New York
like Ginger Rogers in Swingtime
and St. Bridget’s steeple leaning a little to the left

here I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days
(I got tired of D-days) and blue you there still
accepts me foolish and free
all I want is a room up there
and you in it
and even the traffic halt so thick is a way
for people to rub up against each other
and when their surgical appliances lock
they stay together
for the rest of the day (what a day)
I go by to check a slide and I say
that painting’s not so blue

where’s Lana Turner
she’s out eating
and Garbo’s backstage at the Met
everyone’s taking their coat off
so they can show a rib-cage to the rib-watchers
and the park’s full of dancers with their tights and shoes
in little bags
who are often mistaken for worker-outers at the West Side Y
why not
the Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they won
and in a sense we’re all winning
we’re alive

the apartment was vacated by a gay couple
who moved to the country for fun
they moved a day too soon
even the stabbings are helping the population explosion
though in the wrong country
and all those liars have left the UN
the Seagram Building’s no longer rivalled in interest
not that we need liquor (we just like it)

and the little box is out on the sidewalk
next to the delicatessen
so the old man can sit on it and drink beer
and get knocked off it by his wife later in the day
while the sun is still shining

oh god it’s wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much 

    • #birthday
    • #frank o hara
    • #poetry
  • 1 year ago
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“Late Spring,” by W.S. Merwin

ewilcox:

Coming into the high room again after years
after oceans and shadows of hills and the sounds of lies
after losses and feet on stairs

after looking and mistakes and forgetting
turning there thinking to find
no one except those I knew
finally I saw you
sitting in white
already waiting

you of whom I had heard
with my own ears since the beginning
for whom more than once
I had opened the door
believing you were not far 

Wonderful.

    • #one column
    • #the perfect love poem
    • #w.s. merwin
    • #poetry
  • 1 year ago > ecantwell
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Because having a lot of time off doesn’t mean you’ll write more.

I am a disciplined person, not enough perhaps, but I can usually grasp a hold of something and work at it until it’s done. Unless I have a mass surplus of time on my hands, which I do for the next three weeks. I guess I am unprepared for this exodus of activity, and the time that I am ungrateful for, which is why I’m going to share with you some things I have been paying attention to that describe where I have been sitting, trying to write, for the last few evenings.

Jimmy and Mama Yancey - How Long Blues

Nina Simone - Just in Time

I have also been reading the Poems of James Schuyler.

This Dark Apartment

 I asked
you on the phone, “Can’t
you be content with
your wife and me?” “I’m
not built that way,”
you said. No surprise.

Buried at Springs

a day like a gull passing 
with a slow flapping of wings 
in a kind of lope, without 
breeze enough to shake loose 
the last of the fireweed flowers, 
a faintly clammy day, like wet silk 
stained by one dead branch 
the harsh russet of dried blood. 

    • #nina simone
    • #jimmy and mama yancey
    • #james schuyler
    • #poetry
    • #blues
  • 1 year ago
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In th
e death of our laugh

your mouth falls at one side, 

so I remember my skin

without your shadow,

because what do I keep

when you are gone? 

In all this unnecessary calm,

just a blank page,

with your name at the top.

 

    • #poetry
    • #sort of
    • #go to sleep
  • 1 year ago
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eventually I’ll be a bit more ordered about my posting. however, for now you’ll have to put up with this.

All is quiet in the 
misunderstanding of 
your personality. 
I’m too loud about my love,
I’m sorry,
but the wane of my eyes
allow for too little to 
pass by - a sun-cut limb,
half of your teeth through a 
half moon -
and I am only alive for so long.

    • #prose
    • #writing
    • #late night
    • #poetry
  • 2 years ago
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late night essay writing stress relief. a load’a ole ballacks.

i guess there’s someone like you 
always, 
paraded at parties and made to feel
all arms and limbs, 
as if i’d never kissed them.
the collapse of your body
into the wallpaper, the pattern
of your laughing skin, all 
seems irrelevant now, 
as everyone is leaving and we
have no-one to 
perform our love to.

    • #fiction
    • #writing
    • #poetry
    • #ballacks.
  • 2 years ago
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Holy, holy

in a universe of telephone wires

that you understand perfectly.

I don’t think like you, we found that out

a week ago, you have another mythology

to follow, and I don’t believe in things

that don’t conjure easily. 

You shrug in places I cannot see,

you eat without me, you sigh,

your long laugh echoes in the halls of 

someone else’s house, 

and like you, I am too alone.

    • #poetry
    • #of some sort
    • #i woke up in the middle of the night and didn't have a pen
    • #writing
  • 2 years ago
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To Come At One With Both Hands Empty

I.

Let me not be separate
from the hurricanes, from the delicate
humming of the warning shot
because, as you do, I do not
see language, as exposed as I,
that hides from the constricting bind
of ritual, the airing of a room,
the shape made by the failing foot.

Yet I have shown you these instead -
The parts where I am partly dead.

II.

The air breathes out its balmy glaze
upon the gang of window panes.
Sticks out its tongue, as night collides
with the foreign body at my side.

What a brain could make of this -
The steady eyes, alert, transfixed
on running narratives of past
and present that the body grasps.

The tendrils pulled from taste and sound
tie memories to uncommon ground.

III.

Those parts the body leaves behind
in panic, that stray hands will find -

The half-dead root, a martyr made
of slandered soil when drowned in rain.

What new earth? What broken ground?
What unveils that monstrous sound

of silence, sheer and sparse as gauze
that bandages our private wars.

And yet forgotten, we know well,
the crack, the stride, the leap, the yell

- N.D. Kane

    • #poetry
    • #writing
  • 2 years ago
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About

A scrapbook. For my sculpture and professional work, take a look at ND Kane

Creative Director of Blank Slate - Arts Participation and Collaboration

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