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Need Help Please [22 Jan 2008|03:04pm]

There is a line from a Rod McKuen poem, and for the life of me I cannot remember which poem it is and what book it was published in. The line is : Until time swallows itself

Can anyone help me out?
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[26 Aug 2005|12:24am]

[ mood | content ]

A couple years ago, drcristin asked these questions. I figured it was about time to ask them again :)

1. If you have a favorite poem (or two or three), tell us what it is and why.
2. Which books have you read/owned?

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[22 Aug 2005|03:39pm]

[ mood | nostalgic ]


The smell goes first.
The smell that closed rooms have
when women are about.

No coffee smell,
no sweet stale smell of bath,
no hair smell on the pillow,
no smell of beds too long unchanged.

I kept the window closed all day
trying to retain what little of you there was left.

And now the darkness like firecrackers ringing in my ears,
trying to sleep in the same unchanged bed
calling back old images
to make the evening come out right.

[from Stanyan Street & Other Sorrows]

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oops , sorry [06 Nov 2004|11:36pm]

[ mood | embarrassed ]

I just relizes I posted an entry in this journal by accident. Sorry , I didnt mean to rant about work here since obviously this community could care less about that. I deleted the entry. Sorry again.

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just joined [10 Sep 2004|02:48pm]

[ mood | curious ]

I just wanted to make a quick post as I just joined your community. First off thanks for having me. I have recently rediscovered Rod Mckuen. I was exposed to his work when I was younger by my mother. Who often listened to his albums and had some collections of his poetry. I do not own any of his books , as of yet, but I do plan to get some soon. Any suggestions for a begging fan ?

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A Serenade In G Major [01 Jul 2004|10:52pm]

You are not like anything
except yourself. The autumn you
the winter you the same. Your
cavities and mounds ignore all
similes. Your eyes are not the stars.
Not to be compared
to satellites.
One day the latitudes of everything
will change, but not your breasts
or your smiles language. And not
the roots that are your legs that
lead to heaven. The luscious air
on summer evenings tricks me
into thinking I touch August
but I am not in touch with
summer or some season thing.
It's you on me or me on you
or us not anywhere at all
together or two gether. What
does comparison mean anyway
when rose in never asked
to vie with lily?

Some things alike, some not.
I have thought
that I had caught the smell
of honey once
when I was resting deep inside you
but it was only that sweet dominion
that is you, while making love
or making bread
or making fun of me when I am
being serious or silly about us.

When your eyes are heavy and
your mouth is as a whisper I detect
the sea but it is only heavy lidded
You and no imitation rolling ocean.

You are not like anything
except perhaps yourself. Even then
You are never quite like You.
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The Waltz [03 May 2004|02:21pm]

[ mood | thoughtful ]

It's like a dance.
A demented waltz,
with all the dancers
just a little mad.
Loving, I mean.
Giving in, letting go.
It's like a crazy waltz.
Couples in the dance.
Close, apart, together, turning,
promising more than they can give.

A game of musical chairs.
You play to win
but why play so hard?
It's only a waltz.

- from Too Many Midnights, 1981

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[29 Apr 2004|05:46am]

[ mood | tired ]


To write about you isn't easy. Compare it to a blind that on its spring flaps up to smash the window casing. To praise or talk about you would do more injury than compliment.

Within my own heart's head, I remember sun in California, mid-Manhattan corridors and hotel beds, a Sunday walk within Miami's mall. Island nights of fireflies and lightning.

Some pages in my diary are blotted or unused. Those must have been the happiest of times, for who can jot down happiness when it is happening? Bad times? Sure.

Still in this year together I have never once considered life or lifetime to be anything but synonymous with you.

- from Coming Close To The Earth, 1977

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Land's End, from Fields of Wonder [18 Apr 2004|01:16pm]

[ mood | calm ]

Passers-by do still pass by
and short of keeping you
face down forever
I have to run the risk
when we go walking
of seeing wars flare up
on battlefields yet unmarket.
If I must parade you
as the entry in my midnight life
or show you to the sunlight
unmarked by my tattoo of ownership,
I'll do so proudly
and without a chain.

I have in common with all men
a lump in swimming trunks
and most of us have freckles
on our shoulders.

Men are men.
The worst of us are lovely
         in the dark.
All of us are vulgar
when you've pulled aside
the final veil.

Some of us are gentle
after four o' clock.
Some of us are poor
in pride or pocket.
Some of us can make you rich
in plain or fancy rooms--
currency not being comfort
only given circumstance.

All of us,
and that's to each man,
need you more than you need us,
we know that
and you know it too.

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Curiosity Question [17 Apr 2004|04:02pm]

[ mood | contemplative ]

If someone asked you why you like Rod McKuen's poetry, how would you respond? Is it his 'style', his use of words to convey emotion, is it that he talks so frankly about emotion and even bitter emotion seems somehow 'romantic'?

I'll give this some thought myself, but I am curious why you all like him.....

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One for a moody after-midnight [16 Apr 2004|12:41am]

[ mood | moody ]

And I Looked at You a Long Time

And I looked at you a long time
before I left
thinking how beautiful you sleep.
And so I wouldn't waken you
I dressed in the darkness
and covered you against the morning cold.

And I looked at you a long time
before I left
and once more before I turned to go
I turned back again
to be sure I could remember
you doubled up in drunken darkness.

And I wrote a note and left it on
your mirror
I said I'll think of you this morning
when I shave.
And going down the driveway
grumpy with love
I stole your Sunday paper.

And I looked at you a long time
before I left
and I paused on each and every stair
knowing I might never climb that
stairway again
I looked at you a long time.
Now every time I shave
I find myself seeing you again.

- from the album "New Ballads", 1970

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Thanks for inviting me to this community.... [15 Apr 2004|01:09am]

[ mood | mellow ]

My favorite book is 'Listen to the Warm' and I must say I have purchased it over and over again. It seems that I continue to give it away and find myself in need of purchasing it again....

And from this book, my favorite Rod McKuen verse:

I live alone.
It hasn't always been that way.
It's nice sometimes
to open up the heart a little
and let some hurt come in.
It proves you're still alive.

I'm not sure what it means.
Why we cannot shake the old loves from out minds.
It must be that we build on memory
and make them more that what they were.
And is the manufacture
just a safe device for closing up the wall?

I do remember.
The only fuzzy circumstance
is something where-and how.
Why, I know.
It happens just because we need
to want and to be wanted too,
when love is here or gone
to lie down in the darkness
and listen to the warm.

~Rod McKuen, Listen to the Warm

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A long one, from Moment to Moment [14 Apr 2004|08:58am]

[ mood | content ]

Read more...Collapse )

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Where will I rediscover you (unpublished) [15 Feb 2004|04:35pm]

[ mood | listless ]

Where will I rediscover you
                    and will I?
The question sits on all the lips of those
who lie in bed alone. You is/are the name
each of us give to what we love the most
      or what we have not, will not know.
And it is almost always that One, absent,
Gone, through circumstance
              or happenstance.
Where did I lose you and when? Did it
Happen even as we knew we were
discovering each other that first time.
Was loss a piece of swelling
                  big as the enlarging heart?

Sweet basil growing greener reaches up
and through the grass like weeds.
Mallards form a rope across the sky
coming from the south in secret.
Cinnamon Teal bring up the rear.

An early thaw has made all canyons
                    into rivulets.
The daisies saying love me now
                    or love me not.
If I have thought about you more than
now it must have been some other me
       living in a different heartbreak house
surrounded by some other hedge of memory.

I have been to town and back, to Greece
in dreams and in reality. To far shore,
near field, streets between and always I
have sought you out; on yellow days in
yellowed pages, through rages of the mind
and heart. I do not start out on a trip to
corner or beyond without you for you
have never left my head or would be heart.

Where will I come upon you, if I do?
Perhaps in death or life again. When?
Perhaps not ever, what then? I'll give
It another day, a week. Another month.
A lifetime more or less, then I'll give up.

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July 16 [19 Jul 2003|01:27pm]

Years from now we may not need to touch so often
           or roll together in the sand
or eat each other with our eyes.

It could be time will make it easy
to go together side by side
with not a single bedroom thought.

But now the elevator man nodding at you
as we step inside his four-by-four castle
makes me worry more than generals worry
when they lose a war.

--from In Someone's Shadow
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A Word from the Sponsor [14 Jun 2003|10:20pm]

[ mood | discontent ]

How tall we are.
We've learned so much.
Everything, it seems,
but how to stay in touch.

[From In Someone's Shadow]

Where'd everybody go?

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[02 May 2003|04:20pm]

i find myself most attracted to McKuen's writing about sex and relationships. I'm not sure what it is about the way he writes, but it expresses it all so well, so beautifully.

the poem i just posted, "Music Room"... it's about sex and oral sex. But the way he writes it, the metaphor he uses, makes it sexier than if he had just come out and said something about putting his tongue in there and licking, etc. He truly has a way with words that allows us to picture and imagine it in a beautiful, yet subtle, way.
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Again, from The Sound of Solitude [02 May 2003|04:14pm]

"Music Room"

The melody begins.
A single note that spreads
across a harp like night
then doubles back upon itself
growing as i grow along your leg
and then inside of you full song.
Your mouth no orchestrates my own,
we soar on music from another sphere--
each the other's instrument.
No strings stretched on cherry wood
or calfskin tightened into drums.
We are only us,
not cellos or the double bass.

I read you with the eagerness
of scholars poring over manuscripts
written by composers of another time.
We collaborate.
Where your theme ends and mine begins
is now so blurred
neither knows the source of inspiration.

I come upon three mles
like quarter notes,
moving from your lower stomrach
to your inner leg.
I track them with my tongue
and I am led to wet marsh land
where jungle vine and cattail grow.

In this dark sweet-smelling wood
let new language have its start.
Let old arithemetic give way
to older kinds of counting,
not new math but abacus.
Let sleep steal me now
so that I'll awaken
in this self-same place,
to hike again through deeper woods.
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From The Sound of Solitude [29 Apr 2003|12:06pm]

"Slow Dance on Mating Ground"

You said your name
while we were walking home,
my mind was on ahead
already settled up atop the covers,
and who you are still circles
in the outside air
unlearned, so unremembered.

We beat down brainwaves
with makeshift conversation,
stay locked in stories started
not worth endings,
and when a sentence
made of thought arrives and stops
we fail to recognize it for itself.
I would not burn words,
but here beneath your tent of hair
communication voice to ear
is all but useless
as mouth-to-mouth resuscitation
revives us both
and tells us more about each other
than all the family histories
printed on the widest page.

Forgive me
if your name seems unimportant,
I only just discovered
your appendix scar,
while learning what you are.

Your legs are sentences
not said aloud to be before,
literate enough to challenge wordsmiths.
Your breath tells stories new to me
your mouth puts Gulliver in reach.
Fact and fiction meet
behind your tongue.
I swallow mouthfuls of it
while I swallow you.
Whole dictionaries pass between us
in a blur
the way the night is passing.

Your hand. One more time.
Spread it back across my face
and feel the stories inside lines
that time has carved here.

I say hello by traversing
your eyelids with my own.
Body conversation
proves your thighs to be
not just the framework of the world
but intellectuals in themselves.

The universe beyond this mattress
holds more danger than a fog.
I will not let you leave
or go beyond my eyes' protection.

No world is larger now
than that land mass above your eyes.
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[29 Apr 2003|12:38am]

well, i'm new to the community, i've noticed it doesn't get updated too often. i hope maybe some new blood will spark some life here.

i've been a rod mckuen fan for about 10 years when i just randomly grabbed a book of the library shelf. it turned out to be The Sound of Solitude. i fell in love with it instantly. i have since managed to find nearly every one of his books online, through ebay and half.com, and i'm never disappointed.

i now also own a signed copy of The Sound of Solitude, which is entirely appropriate since it's my favorite book still.

here's the poem that got me hooked and still my favorite:

"So Many Others"

Comfort me with apples
torture me with tears
make up for the lonely days
and all the lonesome years.
Place your little fingers
here within my hand
there've been so many others
who didn't understand.

Bring me pretty marbles
the best that you can find,
sing to me of rivers
it helps to ease my mind.
Talk me pretty love words
and I will do the same,
there've been so many others
who didn't ask my name.

They'd look at me and wonder
what is he thinking of
when all I ever wanted
was lullabies and love.

Tell me that I'm handsome
and lots of other lies,
come along and love me
with little summer sighs.
And even if you leave me
pretend your love is true,
there've been so many others
there might as well be you.

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