The Knife that Carves, by Cassidy Foust

My body, never the knife that carves it. I may not crack the bone, but I do drink the marrow.

I searched for this poem, trying to see if someone had uploaded the written version.  My search only brought me back to this video and to Cassidy Foust herself.
 

Letter from the Water..., by Sara Brickman

They do not want me to be a river, but I am unstoppable.
                 I am the perfect instrument. Capable
of every sound, but here the only sound you hear under
                                         me is No. Is, Please. The men
in uniforms strap them to the wood
                 and call it water-
boarding, like drowning is an amusing summer sport.
                                         They hood them into darkness, and tilt their heads
back, pour me up nose and throat until they can't breathe without sucking
                 me in. Inside the prisoners' lungs, I see only panic,
and mothers. The men in uniforms say they do this
                                         to get   “the information.”
I do not know what this   “getting”
                 means. I only know swallow
and crush
                                         undertow and rip-
tide. I have been
                 the moon's wife, but here I taste of mold
and rust.
                                         They line me up
with their scalpels, their chains,
                 their American pop music
played all night
                                         to drive the men crazy, to get    the information
I do not know what desperation
                 feels like
but I imagine it is why the water in these men
                                         crawls out of their eyes to say hello
                 Hello.
Strange, isn't it? To be 58% a thing and yet
                 recoil             when you hear its rush—
Don't you know this? Silly human
                                         with a dog-tag hanging round your neck,
that you are made of me? Connected
                 to all the humid rot in this dungeon air—
how you make a puppet of the current
                                         in you, soldier.
How fast you make an ocean into a gutter
                filled with blood and shit—
looking for answers? Like you could find an oracle
                                         in more death
you drainers
               of the heart. I made you.
Do you think the first creature crawled out of me
                                         to invent                                       torture?
I understand why you do this.
                                         I know what it is
               to close your eyes and see only the thousands of dead
someone has laid at your doorstep. You have filled me
                                         with shipwreck and slave-hold but still
you holler bold
               with your proud, American heart and I wish
                           I could stop flowing in you.
Wish I could return to the clouds,
               to kiss the lightning with my wet throat
but I am locked in your muscle
                          as you beat each man
                                         for praying in a language that looks
like waves. I have
               one muscle,
                          and it wraps around the entire earth.
It is a vengeful storm
               and I have learned from you how to cleave
                          waves from the marrow
how to lick clean.


Letter from the Water at Guantanamo Bay, by Sara Brickman
 

Song for the Last Act, by Louise Bogan

Now that I have your face by heart, I look
Less at its features than its darkening frame
Where quince and melon, yellow as young flame,
Lie with quilled dahlias and the shepherd's crook.
Beyond, a garden. There, in insolent ease
The lead and marble figures watch the show
Of yet another summer loath to go
Although the scythes hang in the apple trees.

Now that I have your face by heart, I look.

Now that I have your voice by heart, I read
In the black chords upon a dulling page
Music that is not meant for music's cage,
Whose emblems mix with words that shake and bleed.
The staves are shuttled over with a stark
Unprinted silence. In a double dream
I must spell out the storm, the running stream.
The beat's too swift. The notes shift in the dark.

Now that I have your voice by heart, I read.

Now that I have your heart by heart, I see
The wharves with their great ships and architraves;
The rigging and the cargo and the slaves
On a strange beach under a broken sky.
O not departure, but a voyage done!
The bales stand on the stone; the anchor weeps
Its red rust downward, and the long vine creeps
Beside the salt herb, in the lengthening sun.

Now that I have your heart by heart, I see.

Song for the Last Act, by Louise Bogan
 

Where are the Dolls, by Elizabeth Bishop

The story of a fictional version of Elizabeth Bishop set to her poem, "Where are the dolls who loved me so..." It's a kind of fever dream, one that emerges from the subconscious of the character and explores the themes of the poem and Bishop's work and life in a broader sense.

Her poem

Where are the dolls who loved me so
when I was young?
Who cared for me with hands of bisque,
poked breadcrumbs in between my lips,
Where are the early nurses,
Gertrude, Zilpha and Nokomis?
Through their real eyes
blank crotches,
and play wrist‐watches
whose hands moved only when they wanted –
Their stoicism I never mastered
their smiling phrase for every occasion –
They went their rigid little ways
To meditate in trunks or closets
To let [life and] unforeseen emotions
glance off their glazed complexions

Where are the Dolls, by Elizabeth Bishop
 

The Night We Know (7) Dreaming

From the sleep of the beloved, by Paul Schneggenburger

What Freudian step led far into night,

Where odd ascends and gates of logic shut 

And id is beast and master come to rule

The very house we thought we ruled alone,

Where impulse alters time and gravity

And pushes for a life we dare not live.

But superego takes its running fight

With id to moderate its push for glut

And symbolize the beast as sports to fool

The mind to open wide, yet keep the bone

Away from those who test fidelity

And those much more inclined to take than give.

In the end ego is the diplomat

Who works at keeping dreams from falling flat.

The Night We Know - Part 7: Dreaming © Ron Villejo
 

The Night We Know (6) Loving

(image credit)

We orchestrate a symphony at night,

Crescendo ‘til the room and sky alight.  

The Night We Know - Part 6: Loving © Ron Villejo
 

The Night We Know (5) Drinking

(image credit)

Looking

Hooking

What style

That smile

Leaning

Meaning

Romance

This chance

Trying

Flying

Unique

Technique

Lolling

Calling

We know

To flow

Hazy

Lazy

Just rest

Abreast

Quiet

Riot

We drink

Not think

Nonsense

Makes sense

Is right

At night

The Night We Know - Part 5: Drinking © Ron Villejo