Showing posts tagged poetry.
x

On the run

Ask me anything   I'm always doing a million things at once, always on the go,
but if I see something interesting, I'll be sure to let you know.

twitter.com/tamyka:

    Thief, by Sally Van Doren →

    I remember the hour
    you stole time from me (read more)

    — 1 week ago with 1 note

    #poetry 
    Sometimes the ugliness

    breaks my heart.
    Other times my heart is broken
    by a beauty so complete
    it overwhelms me:
    love.

    (Source: blindrapture.blogspot.com.au)

    — 2 weeks ago

    #poetry  #mine 
    Go

    You ain’t replying, 
    so I’m figuring: maybe 
    I should quit trying.

    (Source: blindrapture.blogspot.com.au)

    — 2 months ago with 1 note

    #maybe haiku  #poetry  #I wrote this 
    Winter Sleep, by Edith Matilda Thomas

    I know it must be winter (though I sleep)—
    I know it must be winter, for I dream 
    I dip my bare feet in the running stream, 
    And flowers are many, and the grass grows deep. 

    I know I must be old (how age deceives!) 
    I know I must be old, for, all unseen, 
    My heart grows young, as autumn fields grow green 
    When late rains patter on the falling sheaves. 

    I know I must be tired (and tired souls err)— 
    I know I must be tired, for all my soul 
    To deeds of daring beats a glad, faint roll, 
    As storms the riven pine to music stir. 

    I know I must be dying (Death draws near)— 
    I know I must be dying, for I crave 
    Life—life, strong life, and think not of the grave, 
    And turf-bound silence, in the frosty year.

    I know it must be winter (though I sleep)—I know it must be winter, for I dream I dip my bare feet in the running stream, And flowers are many, and the grass grows deep. 
    I know I must be old (how age deceives!) I know I must be old, for, all unseen, My heart grows young, as autumn fields grow green When late rains patter on the falling sheaves. 
    I know I must be tired (and tired souls err)— I know I must be tired, for all my soul To deeds of daring beats a glad, faint roll, As storms the riven pine to music stir. 
    I know I must be dying (Death draws near)— I know I must be dying, for I crave Life—life, strong life, and think not of the grave, And turf-bound silence, in the frosty year.

    (Source: poets.org)

    — 2 months ago

    #poetry  #beautiful  #age  #death  #cold 
    "I was thinking about the velvet deer from a past poem that continues to reappear in new poems like a ghost."

    Christie Ann Reynolds, in her notes about I Want the Certainty of Love in Another Language.

    (That’s what Mr Slater does to me. He just comes back.)

    — 2 months ago with 1 note

    #poetry  #beautiful  #recurring  #motif 
    Opportunity

    I held the door for you for a very long time
    but you never walked through it.
    Now that I’m closing it,
    you’ve jammed your foot in the bottom,
    but you still won’t step through.

    I won’t slam it, won’t break your toes.
    I never needed to close that door anyway.
    I just needed to go through the next one.

    (Source: blindrapture.blogspot.com.au)

    — 3 months ago

    #I wrote this  #poetry 
    Stalker? →

    I’ve been puzzled by people claiming I inspire them, because for me the desire to do, to create, has always come from within. Until now. I think I get it now.

    — 3 months ago

    #poetry  #I wrote this  #click the link 
    El Beso, by Angelina Weld Grimké

    Twilight—and you
    Quiet—the stars;
    Snare of the shine of your teeth,
    Your provocative laughter,
    The gloom of your hair;
    Lure of you, eye and lip;
    Yearning, yearning,
    Languor, surrender;
    Your mouth,
    And madness, madness,
    Tremulous, breathless, flaming,
    The space of a sigh;
    Then awakening—remembrance,
    Pain, regret—your sobbing;
    And again, quiet—the stars,
    Twilight—and you.

     

    — 3 months ago

    #poetry  #not mine  #beauty 
    To Say

    'I love you like a sister' may have meant
    I love you like my own 
    flesh and blood, 
    or it may have meant 
    I was too scared to acknowledge that
    I loved you to the edge of the earth 
    and back. Only when I got to the edge I saw 
    I had already come 
    full circle and I loved you 
    like a sister.

    (Source: blindrapture.blogspot.com.au)

    — 3 months ago with 1 note

    #poetry  #I wrote this  #it's not my story  #ask yourself 
    From ‘Four Hundred Gratitude-Flower-Hearts’, by Sri Chinmoy

    Run,
    You can easily
    Shake hands
    With
    The fleeting time.

    Run,
    You can easily
    Challenge
    The pride of
    Frightening distance.

    (Source: srichinmoylibrary.com)

    — 3 months ago

    #poetry  #meditation  #running  #transcendence 
    "…that compulsion to craft words is a thing overpowering, a thing unquenchable, a thing undeniable, a thing overwhelming and in that moment of creation, a thing all-consuming."
    Maxine Beneba Clarke, in an interview with Going Down Swinging

    (Source: goingdownswinging.org.au)

    — 3 months ago

    #writing  #poetry  #writing about poetry 
    It wz poetry, by Maxine Beneba Clarke
        they said 
            that thing you do
        
    i said 
            poetry
        they said 
           what do you call that thing you do
        
    i said
            poetry
        they said
            man who taught you to sing
        i said
            i cannot and do not

            don/t you know 
            words also have pitch

            bt since you are so interested 
            i will tell you again: it is poetry

         they said
            seriously
            i  mean / you sound like 
            odetta /aretha / etta / or nina
            or someone
         which really means
            you sound like
            some other miscellaneous female
            of your particular species

         i said
            please
            i am more hip hop than rap 
            i am more rap than jazz
            and i am definitely more jazz than blues

            i am true blue / blue gum 
            black blood / blue tongue
            white collar / bt blue collar enough
            to point phrase like a gun

            odetta-aretha-etta-nina whatever
            i am not african american simply because
            i beat word like it’s drum

         they said 
            oh but wow
            then what do you call 
            that thing you do

        
         i said 
            ok / i have had it
            get back / mother fuckers
            i am warning you 
            i got poetry

         and i held it out at them

         my hands were trembling
         their eyes were wild

         and i cd 
         smell

         their fear

         it wz poetry

    (Source: slamup.blogspot.com.au)

    — 3 months ago

    #poetry  #sue sent me on a poetry mission  #mark was also in the poetry vortex 
    Angel, by Paul Hetherington

    In the haunting shadows of this place
    I played naively, like a three- year- old
    because you unlocked all my stored reserve,
    made laughter seem entirely natural.

    We found our words like touch; on our tongues
    they tasted magical, and their effect
    stayed with us through weeks - words we found
    identifying what we’d long believed.

    And yet they were ordinary words,
    those we’d learnt when language first occurred:
    tree, and house, and love, and soil, and earth,
    simple words that had no ecstasy

    until you framed them newly with your mouth,
    as if a new- made sculpture had been cast
    molten in your warm enfolding breath -
    and yet, intangible, I could not grasp

    your words, but felt them shift inside of me
    as if I were their natural abode:
    they left your mouth as ordinary things
    and were transformed as if they grew bright wings.

    — 3 months ago with 1 note

    #poetry  #mark was also in the poetry vortex 
    An Almost Made Up Poem, by Charles Bukowski

    I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
    blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
    they are small, and the fountain is in France
    where you wrote me that last letter and
    I answered and never heard from you again.
    you used to write insane poems about
    ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
    knew famous artists and most of them
    were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
    go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
    because we’ never met. we got close once in
    New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
    touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
    about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
    is that the famous are worried about
    their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
    with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
    in the morning to write upper case poems about
    ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
    us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
    it was the upper case. you were one of the
    best female poets and I told the publishers,
    editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
    magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
    like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
    writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
    loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
    cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
    but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
    your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
    lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
    you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
    the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
    bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
    hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
    heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
    3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
    I would probably have been unfair to you or you
    to me. it was best like this.

    — 3 months ago

    #poetry  #sue sent me on a poetry mission  #this is where i entered the vortex 
    Walt Whitman’s Caution, by Walt Whitman

    TO The States, or any one of them, or any city of The States, Resist much, obey little;
    Once unquestioning obedience, once fully enslaved;
    Once fully enslaved, no nation, state, city, of this earth, ever afterward resumes its liberty.

    (Source: bartleby.com)

    — 3 months ago

    #poetry  #sue sent me on a poetry mission