April 2010
Lending Out Books, Hal Sirowitz
poetry365:
You’re always giving, my therapist said.
You have to learn how to take. Whenever
you meed a woman, the first thing you do
is lend her your books. You think she’ll
have to see you again in order to return them.
But what happens is, she doesn’t have the time
to read them, & she’s afraid if she sees you again
you’ll expect her to talk about them, & will
want to lend her...
patrickwilson asked: How do you get that "Order Print" button in the Dashboard? I've never sen it before!
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“It was these little things that explained why cross-breeding never worked: they...”
– Bird Lovers, Backyard by Thalia Field so much wonderful.
My Mother Was No White Dove, Reginald Shepherd
poetry365:
no dove at all, coo-rooing through the dusk
and foraging for small seeds
My mother was the clouded-over night
a moon swims through, the dark against which stars
switch themselves on, so many already dead
by now (stars switch themselves off
and are my mother, she was never
so celestial, so clearly seen)
My mother was a murder of crows
stilled, black plumage gleaming
among...
After the Phone Call, Robert Vandermolen (for...
poetry365:
She looked nearly the same
But when I hugged her
There was substantially more
To her—no doubt as with me.
She fibbed as I did at the edge
Of curb under the streetlight
As spiders dropped like tiny
Parachutes—they were difficult
To see. On the periphery
Of good luck, I though,
Revisiting her quirky habits
And expressions, what I eventually
Found so bothersome. Except
When...
“On our way out of the bathroom, I notice that that under his uniform sweater,...”
– We All Got it Coming: Chapter 4. by Joey Comeau
jadabh-deactivated20100805 asked: You write poetry. I write poetry. Friends we should be.
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here is something
You try too hard.
You try too hard, but if you didn’t you probably wouldn’t try at all. You aren’t naturally a “people person” and most of what you’d like to talk about isn’t too popular. Most people are frightened by your excitement over books and art. Your intensity or your intimacy is too much. Also you want so badly to share these special things, but...
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“Written on the body is a secret code only visible in certain lights: the...”
– Written On the Body, pg 89, Jeannette Winterson (via littlegirlyone) (via erospainter)
Waking, 2:34, David Wojahn
poetry365:
To your lamp still burning, book dropped to the bedcover.
*
Under the ceiling dan, the pages breathe & flutter
*
& I mark your place with my best guesswork, switch
*
the lamp off & grope my way down the hallway to piss.
*
Countless are the verses of insomnia & panic:
*
Larkin, Lowell, Kees & Schwartz. I shake a sky-blue Xanax
*
to my palm, halving...
Strange Litany, Katie Peterson (4/10)
poetry365:
It’s hard to believe it ever happened
But not in the way it’s difficult
to believe anything ever happened.
In a way that requires a field.
Like this one, soft, as far as I can see,
yellowing without variation.
Fine, let’s have it then: the field
undestroyed, equal to the sky.
The aspens romance their way towards water.
They are turning red. If men are plants
they can repair...
Department of Telescopes, Joshua Poteat
poetry365:
It seemed like suffering, or a lesser form of anguish,
though I’m not sure where it comes from,
watching the possum choose an eggshell
from the garbage can, there in the night orchard
of this minor city, the streetlight’s hum so peculiar,
clumsy nest bright above the alley. I knew right then
the earth loved it more than me. A city possum,
no “o,” no rat, two babies asleep on...
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here is something
I could have made you love me. I could have done the right things, moved the right way, fit into the space you needed filled. I could have made you forget the others. I could have made you stop yourself in sentences starting with “I love—”
I’m being told to embrace myself, be self-reliant, self-sufficient, self-self-self but it’s getting boring. And lonely. And for...
Anonymous asked: is this how i post a comment? i lurve Iron Giant. brad bird is brilliant.
Little Apocalypse, Rachel Zucker (for 4/5)
poetry365:
Every day, a little apocalypse
Lay down, lay down next to this
-David Byrne
The most common cause of death is cars.
The second’s falling trees. We’ve got no idea
which way the trunk is bound to tumble but love
the leaves and bark of upper branches. What insatiable appetites befall us.
Our son’s buzzed hair is softer than a kit’s
plush hide, a velvety fleece that nearly wiped...
“We could have grown roots, we stood there so long. We could have grown wings and...”
– Jean Hegland, Into the Forest (via Erospainter)
Casabianca, Felicia Dorothea Hemans (for 4/2)
poetry365:
The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle’s wreck
Shone round him o’er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.
The flames rolled on — he would not go
Without his father’s word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer...
Interviewer: What did you miss most about Pete?
(Peter: hides under his hat.)
Carl: I don't know. If I'm honest, then I missed having a... having a best friend who, for all his foibles, who got me. Because we just share the same dreams, and the same sense of humour, the same irony--
John: The same pants.
Carl: Very good, John. It's just--you know when you meet someone who gets you and you get them. On the deepest level. I mean that. And...that's something I always missed about Pete.
Interviewer: Pete, what did you miss about Carl?
Carl: Go on, say something funny. Go on.
Pete: I just missed Carl, to be honest.