CURRENTS

Currents

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  • My very newest poems from 2014: I hate bad poetry. That's why I'm happy not to be making it! I think Mary Oliver has finally sunken in. I think the words are finally flowing once again
  • My poems from early 2014: I seem to be starting this new year with a muffled, distant boom rather than a boisterous bang
  • My poems from 2013: I so hope you enjoy a few of them . . . they're the best so far, I believe. I certainly could be wrong. I read Mary Oliver and humbly seek to learn how
  • My Poems in 2012: and who's Rita Dove?
  • More poems, 2001-02: more recent poems, including one for Elvin Jones
  • My early poetry, 1976-77: the creation of a poem can still be an act of defiance, of irreverence, of hope, of love, of protest: it can also be an act of pure incompetence . . . it is a precarious art form

Poetry by Jessica Williams—2012-02

I Hear Your Voice above the Wind

I hear your voice above the wind,
and you're telling me I'm beautiful and safe from the storm.
When I say that I'm frightened,
you never laugh at me or reason away my fear.
You walk with my worry and doubt.
Then you hold me near, keep me warm,
and cast demons out.

I feel your touch in the needling rain,
and your touch, your lover's touch is a balm.
In the places of pain that I've been,
you always seem to show up just in time.
You seem to be me in disguise.
In this angry clime you bring me calm,
and a truth that sweeps away all lies.

I see your smile as sunlight comes,
like good news, cast on a dark and eldritch day.
How lucky I was to find you here!
How could I ever doubt that miracles are real?
Your words uncross wires buried down deep
and help me to deal with the din, and delay
of dreams that we somehow managed to keep.

Jessica Williams, Friday, February 17, 2012 8:50 PM

 

Only so many Notes

Only so many notes against so many bullets.
The dogs of war. Dogs? Dogs were never thus!
And it's fast to blame men, though I want to, I want to.
But they, like us,
are of the same machine.
Of the same design,
born to be molded like lead,
into guns -
Or silk into slippers.
Born to be lied to and led to and bled.
Born to be martyred or bullied or dead.

Do you still believe in the Gods of our Fathers?
There's War and there's Sin and there's
Dead Men on Trees in the skies of our Homeland.
And now, as before,
we're told to live the Lie.
"Building Seven. God in Heaven."
Told to be gentle and mute
like our moms -
Or Mad like our Men.
Told to be seen, or told to be mean,
or told to fly jets and drop bombs.

Jessica Williams, Monday, February 20, 2012 1:17 AM

 

These notes are our diamonds

These notes are our diamonds-
They sliver,
burn,
cut.
They're carboniferous fire,
consuming the pages of your complacency,
curling the edges of your diplomacy,
vivisecting the carcass of your supremacy.
You are dying, and we are being born,
torn from the pages of your most esteemed screeds,
your most revered pamphlets and training manuals,
but artfully rearranged into the single word
of living, breathing,
naked fire, finally and fully
alive.
Those of you who hate life
are still invited
to listen
and learn to

breathe.

Jessica Williams, February 20, 2012 1:26 AM

 

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All poetry Jessica Williams, JJW Publishing ©1975-2014

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