Learn More

Diane Wakoski

(1937 / California / United States)

Blue Monday


Blue of the heaps of beads poured into her breasts
and clacking together in her elbows;
blue of the silk
that covers lily-town at night;
blue of her teeth
that bite cold toast
and shatter on the streets;
blue of the dyed flower petals with gold stamens
hanging like tongues
over the fence of her dress
at the opera/opals clasped under her lips
and the moon breaking over her head a
gush of blood-red lizards.

Blue Monday. Monday at 3:00 and
Monday at 5. Monday at 7:30 and
Monday at 10:00. Monday passed under the rippling
California fountain. Monday alone
a shark in the cold blue waters.

You are dead: wound round like a paisley shawl.
I cannot shake you out of the sheets. Your name
is still wedged in every corner of the sofa.

Monday is the first of the week,
and I think of you all week.
I beg Monday not to come
so that I will not think of you
all week.

You paint my body blue. On the balcony
in the softy muddy night, you paint me
with bat wings and the crystal
the crystal
the crystal
the crystal in your arm cuts away
the night, folds back ebony whale skin
and my face, the blue of new rifles,
and my neck, the blue of Egypt,
and my breasts, the blue of sand,
and my arms, bass-blue,
and my stomach, arsenic;

there is electricity dripping from me like cream;
there is love dripping from me I cannot use—like acacia or
jacaranda—fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street.

Love passed me in a blue business suit
and fedora.
His glass cane, hollow and filled with
sharks and whales ...
He wore black
patent leather shoes
and had a mustache. His hair was so black
it was almost blue.

"Love," I said.
"I beg your pardon," he said.
"Mr. Love," I said.
"I beg your pardon," he said.

So I saw there was no use bothering him on the street

Love passed me on the street in a blue
business suit. He was a banker
I could tell.

So blue trains rush by in my sleep.
Blue herons fly overhead.
Blue paint cracks in my
arteries and sends titanium
floating into my bones.
Blue liquid pours down
my poisoned throat and blue veins
rip open my breast. Blue daggers tip
and are juggled on my palms.
Blue death lives in my fingernails.

If I could sing one last song
with water bubbling through my lips
I would sing with my throat torn open,
the blue jugular spouting that black shadow pulse,
and on my lips
I would balance volcanic rock
emptied out of my veins. At last
my children strained out
of my body. At last my blood
solidified and tumbling into the ocean.
It is blue.
It is blue.
It is blue.

Submitted: Friday, August 01, 2014
Edited: Friday, August 01, 2014

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (Blue Monday by Diane Wakoski )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..

Trending Poets

Trending Poems

  1. Daffodils, William Wordsworth
  2. Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
  3. Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
  4. The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
  5. Invictus, William Ernest Henley
  6. I Am the Only Being Whose Doom, Emily Jane Brontë
  7. Kupamanduka, Gopalakrishna Adiga
  8. An Africa Thunderstorm, David Rubadiri
  9. A Moment Of Happiness, Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
  10. A Late Walk, Robert Frost

Poem of the Day

poet Emily Jane Brontë

I am the only being whose doom
No tongue would ask no eye would mourn
I never caused a thought of gloom
A smile of joy since I was born

In secret pleasure - secret tears
...... Read complete »

   

New Poems

  1. The Lifelong Comrades, Muhammad Farhan Ahmed
  2. LAST TIME, Terry Collett
  3. Another Toll By Death, Tony Adah
  4. I have always thought about life, Sumita Jetley
  5. I MISS YOU DAD, Sharen Suren
  6. Roses Red, Coral, Blue, Muhammad Farhan Ahmed
  7. A Night Thought, Luo Zhihai
  8. B day, hasmukh amathalal
  9. Nothing worth to be Found Right, Meriam Joseph
  10. Mr. right, hasmukh amathalal
[Hata Bildir]