poetry   50582

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poetry | Carrion Comfort, Gerard Manley Hopkins
Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
poetry 
yesterday by ineptshieldmaid
Twitter
I was never really insane except upon occasions when my heart was touched.
Edgar Allan
Poe  poetry  writing  from twitter_favs
2 days ago by lguardino
“Water Images of The New Yorker”
I’m delighted to see that Harper’s has Charles Bernstein’s “Water Images of The New Yorker ” online. It’s a funny take on what Bernstein terms “official verse culture.”
NewYorker  poetry 
3 days ago by M.Leddy
A few lines of bad poetry
Wordsworth, from The Stuffed Owl: An Anthology of Bad Verse , edited by D.B. Wyndham Lewis and Charles Lee.
poetry 
3 days ago by M.Leddy
Don’t Hesitate by Mary Oliver
Don’t Hesitate by Mary Oliver

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the
case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.
poetry  poem  life 
3 days ago by winekitteh

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