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What Poem…? And how’s your hearts. (Patreon)

Published:
2023-01-31 06:44:50
Imported:
2023-03

Content

Hello my loves.


I’m just finishing up the Althing (for you new people; that’s the month newsletter we send out with all things AFP/Dresden Dolls/ Community only for the patrons) to send out tomorrow, and have been hunting for the right poem to read/record for you in the video.

My soul is crying for a reading of “Invictus”, I’ve never recorded that one and it’s feeling resonant, even though it’s so well-known.

Eh? Nah? Hm.

I figured I’d come here and at least start a little poetry party before I go ahead and record it.

So. Are there any poems that are resonating with your soul right now? Share away. Links, name/author for east googling, or just paste the poem in. I’m reading.

(Nothing too long, please. Originals are fine.)

Top voted poem/comment is likely to get my eyeballs (heartballs? soulballs?) so go ahead and use the heart function to upvote a comment you like the look of.

Sorry I have been on the quiet side. I’ve been introverted lately, processing, taking care of little Ash. Writing this Althing has been a good exercise - as usual - in facing what’s in and outside.

It’s been a heavy week of news in America, a heavy week of life, weather, realities … of everything. Send some poems with a glimmer of hope.


And feel free to use this thread for general chat and to tell me how you’re doing or what you’re thinking. How’s all your hearts?

It’s always nice to just get a sense of how you all are before I make my big blast to the community. (It’s also a good time to send any last minute notices for the community bulletin board).

Love,

Amanda


———THE STUFF I PASTE AT THE END OF THE POST———


1. if you are a patron and new to my work, don’t forget your patronage allows you access to ALL of my patreon releases to date. HERE is the link to download my latest big solo record, “There Will Be No Intermission”, and HERE is a link to download the PDF of the art/essay book that goes with it.


2. if you’re a patron reading this post via an email notification, please click through to comment on this post. at the very least, if you’ve read it, indicate that by using the heart symbol. that's always nice for me to see, so i know who's reading. 


3. see All the Things (almost 200 of them) i've made so far on patreon: 

http://amandapalmer.net/things


4. JOIN THE SHADOWBOX COMMUNITY FORUM, find your people, and discuss everything: https://forum.theshadowbox.net/


5. are you new to my music and TOTALLY OVERWHELMED? TAKE A WALK THROUGH AMANDALANDA….we made a basic list of my greatest hits n stuff (at least up until a few years ago, this desperately needs updating) on this lovely page: http://amandalanda.amandapalmer.net/


6. general AFP/patreon-related questions? ask away, someone will answer: patronhelp@amandapalmer.net


















Files

Comments

Anonymous

“As travel brings the needy To gain perspective Of conditions we Endure throughout cities To have a life.” By @thelynngentry, NYC subway poet and musician, who wrote this for my friend and I before I had a child and before covid halted my travels.

Coila

The emotional rollercoaster has less intense highs and lows lately but I'm not off the thing yet. 😅 Really hoping I can make it work to come see you perform solo! And, if I do get to, hoping to get to see you after for a minute or two. Are you doing that this time? It'll be way past my bedtime and I wouldn't blame you if it were past yours, too! 😅

Gaba Kulka

Radio by Frank O'Hara Why do you play such dreary music on Saturday afternoon, when tired mortally tired I long for a little reminder of immortal energy? All week long while I trudge fatiguingly from desk to desk in the museum you spill your miracles of Grieg and Honegger on shut-ins. Am I not shut in too, after a week of work don't I deserve Prokofieff? Well, I have my beautiful de Kooning to aspire to. I think it has an orange bed in it, more than the ear can hold.

Andrew Funk

A favorite from Jim Harrison

Andrew Funk

I feel my failure intensely as if it were a vital organ the gods grew from the side of my head. You can't cover it with a hat and I no longer can sleep on that side it's so tender. I wasn't quite faithful enough to carry this sort of weight up the mountain. When I took my vows at nineteen I had no idea that gods were so merciless. Fear makes for good servants and bravery is fraudulent. When I awoke I wasn't awake enough. Jim Harrison

Anonymous

A work in progress: Music. In prayer and meditation. It brings serenity and peace Just as it brings joy. And I’m engergized and impassioned by it. I’ll enjoy it at a feast. I’ll savor it like a decadent dessert. I’ll discover new tastes and travel with it. It will refresh and nourish me. I’ll dance with it. I’ll honor it And I’ll march and process with it. And I’ll waltz. Yes, I’ll waltz Music... All in a different time. All with a signature Yours. Mine. And I’ll take the baton. I will sing with the choir of loved ones And others I meet. But giving the baton to myself to direct the music I take into -and give from-my heart... I hear from others the music of their hearts-allowing them their baton... As I take up my own baton for myself. Hearing and composing All music- as in life-with love. Receiving, giving. In all natures of music. Within us and for all. There may be discord. There may be harmony. There may be only a simple melody But it will all be music ...And it will all be good...

Cyn

Please do not share this outside this Patreon. I am assembling a collection and previous publication counts even for social media, or semi private shares like this: All My Dead Ex’s The giant green marble table in your kitchen, always cold as a mortuary slab, can seat at least 12 but right now it’s just you and me and you keep trying to lay down No no no don’t! Your head flops to the side on your broken neck, your face half purple, swollen, juicy as a ripe plum. The white glitter of your hair on that side matted with drying blood.I keep propping you up, stay with me, stay with me, stay with me but something makes me look away and when I turn back you are draped over the green marble broken side down, blood pooling like wine spilled around your head. Your one open blue eye tells me you are dead. Then I wake up. For a moment it is still tonight. Then I remember it was 2011. The decade plus of thunder sobs and tearnados gave me my grandma’s face, older than our age. Resting bitch replaced by resting sad. The pretty we once were washed away by storm surge erosion scours off even waterproof makeup. I carried your scent for years, call it to the front and there you were. Gods know I wrote the description into a dozen poems - salt, smoke, ginger lily, you, but it won’t come to me anymore. I can remember the scent of my dog who died in 1999, but where is yours? I spray my drapes with your very expensive perfume that only smelled good mixed with your skin anyway. I quit smoking, so that note is gone. Gods I want a cigarette so bad but I don’t think voluntary cancer is the path to be with you again. Your scent was in my skin and now it’s gone. Those 5 stages of grief are from a shitty self help book from 1969. Not science, never peer reviewed. Now it’s part of the folklore. Everyone has a list, a time table, a calendar to show me when and how and in which order my grief must be processed. Because I’m doing it all wrong. I never bargained, there was no time. Denial? Can't deny the frost shrouded voicemail from your daughter telling me you’re dead and do not come. I am not welcome. Shock. Horror. Agony. Yes. All those. Depression lived in my bones before you. Now after you, the very fluid concept of my sanity makes depression feel like my velveteen rabbit, my familiar bedtime cuddle ripped from my arms and tossed on the burn pile. Acceptance? What part of death do I not understand? Fini - it’s over. Two weeks before we drove to Illinois to get married even though we wouldn’t be married at home. Two weeks before we bought the farm property I knew you would fill with rescue chickens and homeless pigs, you die in a stupid accident?! I want to break into your daughter’s house, smash the jar of your ashes on the mantle and vacuum you. It only took eleven years to get mad at you. Eleven years and two months. I called you my ex for the first time. You have been inducted into that venerable society - All My Dead Ex’s.

Anonymous (edited)

Comment edits

2023-03-08 20:44:17 The Sleepless by Li-Young Lee
2023-02-02 09:36:48

Anonymous (edited)

Comment edits

2023-03-08 20:44:17 The Sleepless Like any ready fruit, I woke falling toward beginning and welcome, all of night the only safe place. Spoken for, I knew a near hand would meet me everywhere I heard my name and the stillness ripening around it. I found my inborn minutes decreed, my death appointed and appointing. And singing collects the earth about my rest, making of my heart the way home.
2023-02-02 09:39:42