poetry   50060

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“For Grace, After a Party”
“and the warm weather
is holding.”
yesterday by jasdev
april is: a poem a day for national poetry month (April 21, 2018: Annunciation, Marie Howe)
Marie Howe 

Even if I don’t see it again—nor ever feel it
I know it is—and that if once it hailed me
it ever does—
And so it is myself I want to turn in that direction
not as towards a place, but it was a tilting
within myself,
as one turns a mirror to flash the light to where
it isn’t—I was blinded like that—and swam
in what shone at me
only able to endure it by being no one and so
specifically myself I thought I’d die
from being loved like that. 
yesterday by dropsofviolet
april is: a poem a day for national poetry month (April 24, 2018: Afterlife, Natalie Eilbert)
Natalie Eilbert 

There is no life after death. Why
              should there be. What on

earth would have us believe this.
              Heaven is not the American

highway, blackened chicken alfredo
              from Applebee’s nor the

clown sundae from Friendly’s. Our
              life, this is the afterdeath,

when we blink open, peeled and
              ready to ache. Years ago

my aunt banged on the steering, she
              insisted there had to be a

God, a heaven. We were on our
              way to a wedding. I would

have to sit at the same table as the
              man who saw no heaven

in me. Today I am thinking about
              Mozart, of all people, who

died at 35 mysteriously, perhaps of
              strep. What a strange cloth

it is to live. But that we came from
              death and return to it, made

different by form, shaped again back
              into anti–, anti–. On my run,

I think of Jack Gilbert, who said we
              must insist while there is still

time, but insist toward what. Why we
              must fill the void with light—

isn’t that our human insistence? But
              we drift into a distance of

distance until proximity fails, our
              name lifts away with any

future concerns, the past a flattened
              coin that cannot spin. I am

matter spun from death’s wool—and
              I bewilder the itch, I who am

I am just so happy to go.
yesterday by dropsofviolet
april is: a poem a day for national poetry month (April 25, 2018: I Dreamed Again, Anne Michaels)
I Dreamed Again, Anne Michaels
I Dreamed Again
Anne Michaels

I dreamed again you were alive, and woke
certain it was your voice —
love is whisky, it is milk, 
it is water don’t ever, you said in the dream,
think I’ve gone

I woke a little more, a moment or two,
then remembered. Memory makes it so. Keeps you
under the trees.

So I did not turn on the lamp
but lay until I felt again your warmth with mine
heard your voice in my hair

I lay there a long time,
yesterday by dropsofviolet
Weather Systems by Barbara Crooker
A prose poem on issue of cold hands and feet with your lover. One is always the radiator, the other the icebox.
2 days ago by ferret
tell me if this is all true
The Poem

It was like getting a love letter from a tree

Eyes closed forever to find you—

There is a life which
if I could have it
I would have chosen for myself from the beginning

Franz Wright
4 days ago by dropsofviolet
tell me if this is all true


one mug
green with white polka dots, famous for earl grey with
two sugars and a splash
of milk.
the left side of my bed.
the song of songs
(I am for my beloved, my beloved is for me).
the ability to differentiate between you
and the hallucination.
Pablo Neruda, who could write the saddest lines and
taught me to say I love you.
All those spaces in me that you filled
throbbing —

i thought to myself yesterday
how is it possible that I am going to die without kissing you again
i lost so many things to you, things i’ll never get back and I will go the rest of my life

not kissing you

4 days ago by dropsofviolet
tell me if this is all true


Gradually, and working its way slowly, through all things,
beginning even long before we knew each other.
Through emptiness, through aimlessness,
the spirit’s daily wandering in the desert of the familiar,
fed by nights of exhaustion and driven by occasional despair,
by grief, loss compounded upon loss.
Through the patient forbearance of cruelties,
year after year, through folly, through faith and faithlessness,
through half-measures and weakness, through your and my
daily silent supplications and small acts of ordinary magic,
the spontaneous calling out to distant spirits,
each in our separate ways, and for answer the surge of the wind,
the circulation of the sun and the moon,
the churning of the far away oceans
that we each knew and felt in our own blood and breath.
So that when we first saw each other
finally that one July evening at twilight,
it seemed almost as if nothing happened.
A life had already grown up wild around us like a meadow,
was already waiting for us, silent, open.

Eric Evans
4 days ago by dropsofviolet
tell me if this is all true

That next morning, I was undeterred by what was required of me.
That I should be a washer of dishes, a scheduler of dentist appointments,
an organizer of tangled cell phone chargers, a signer of report cards,

was all parenthetical to what mattered most.
My heart a filament, my body an incandescent bulb.

Outside, the whir of a lawnmower.
Inside, a persistent transcendent thrum.

Jill Moffett
4 days ago by dropsofviolet
tell me if this is all true

When you finally, after deep illness, lay
the length of your body on mine, isn’t it
like the strata of the earth, the pressure
of time on sand, mud, bits of shell, all
the years, uncountable wakings, sleepings,
sleepless nights, fights, ordinary mornings
talking about nothing, and the brief
fiery plummets, and the unselfconscious
silences of animals grazing, the moving
water, wind, ice that carries the minutes, leaves
behind minerals that bind the sediment into rock.
How to bear the weight, with every
flake of bone pressed in. Then, how to bear when
the weight is gone, the way a woman
whose neck has been coiled with brass
can no longer hold it up alone. Oh love,
it is balm, but also a seal. It binds us tight
as the fur of a rabbit to the rabbit.
When you strip it, grasping the edge
of the sliced skin, pulling the glossy membranes
apart, the body is warm and limp. If you could,
you’d climb inside that wet, slick skin
and carry it on your back. This is not
neat and white and lacy like a wedding,
not the bright effervescence of champagne
spilling over the throat of the bottle. This visceral
bloody union that is love, but
beyond love. Beyond charm and delight
the way you to yourself are past charm and delight.
This is the shucked meat of love, the alleys and broken
glass of love, the petals torn off the branches of love,
the dizzy hoarse cry, the stubborn hunger.

Ellen Bass
4 days ago by dropsofviolet
tell me if this is all true

For What Binds Us

There are names for what binds us:
strong forces, weak forces.
Look around, you can see them:
the skin that forms in a half-empty cup,
nails rusting into the places they join,
joints dovetailed on their own weight.
The way things stay so solidly
wherever they’ve been set down—
and gravity, scientists say, is weak.

And see how the flesh grows back
across a wound, with a great vehemence,
more strong
than the simple, untested surface before.
There’s a name for it on horses,
when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh,

as all flesh,
is proud of its wounds, wears them
as honors given out after battle,
small triumphs pinned to the chest—

And when two people have loved each other
see how it is like a
scar between their bodies,
stronger, darker, and proud;
how the black cord makes of them a single fabric
that nothing can tear or mend.

4 days ago by dropsofviolet
tell me if this is all true

Sonnet w/ Rose

When I see you after so long not
seeing you it is like picking up in
side a fist the flopped red petals of
a drooped red rose, and when you
speak in the voice that could only be
yours it is like staring into my fist
top’s opening and seeing the rose
as the rose once was. This is not just
to say that the swirl and sweetness
soon flops back open to what now is,
though it does, but that when I see
you after so long not seeing you
I make sense of my feeling in terms
of the rose, and carry it past goodbye.

Matthew Yeager
4 days ago by dropsofviolet
Discussions of the cleave form, budding from Jess's _Olio_ brought up a certain Wordpress site dedicated to…
Poetry  from twitter
4 days ago by uche
The All-American Menstrual Hut - Lenny Letter
I think I'm an elitist in my personal life and a communist in my politics.
teaching  poetry  writing  dfw 
5 days ago by craniac
The Best American Poetry 2018 | September 12, 2018
English professor and poet Wang Ping and this year's Jardetsky lecturer and winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry Gary Snyder are both featured in this book.
macfaculty  poetry  JardetzkyLecture  piper 
5 days ago by macalestercollege

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