Quote
"my body
writes into your flesh
the poem
you make of me"

— Audre Lorde, from “Recreation” (via awritersruminations)

Text

Rhapsody

missingthejackandtheace:

you were there always and you know all about these things
as indifferent as an encyclopedia with your calm brown eyes
it isn’t enough to smile when you run the gauntlet
you’ve got to spit like Niagara Falls on everybody or
Victoria Falls or at least the beautiful urban fountains of Madrid
as the Niger joins the Gulf of Guinea near the Menemsha Bar
that is what you learn in the early morning passing Madison Avenue
where you’ve never spent any time and stores eat up light

Frank O’Hara, full

Text

apoetreflects:

My journal pleases … each day’s entry
a small bud and I am glad.  Its deckle-
edged leaves seem to me, at times, almost
to rattle between my pinched fingers like
the packet I empty over earth’s harrowed
mound.  My seed-black script smatters
the page.  Leech-gatherer and night-piece
alike fly loose, words lifted and blown
by a wind, to fertilize some other’s ground.

—Rebecca Dunham, closing lines to “Alfoxden” in The Flight Cage (Tupelo Press, 2010)

Quote
"Because
only the truest things always

are true because they can’t be true"

— e. e. cummings, from “that melancholy” (via proustitute)

Link

sharingpoetry:

My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walked the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s…

Photo

(Source: localised, via the-questioner)

Text

"My Brother At 3 AM" by Natalie Diaz

He sat cross-legged, weeping on the steps
when Mom unlocked and opened the front door.
O God, he said, O God.
He wants to kill me, Mom.

When Mom unlocked and opened the front door
at 3 a.m., she was in her nightie, Dad was asleep.
He wants to kill me, he told her,
looking over his shoulder.

3 a.m. and in her nightie, Dad asleep,
What’s going on? She asked, Who wants to kill you?
He looked over his shoulder.
The devil does. Look at him, over there.

She asked, What are you on? Who wants to kill you?
The sky wasn’t black or blue but the green of a dying night.
The devil, look at him, over there.
He pointed to the corner house.

The sky wasn’t black or blue but the dying green of night.
Stars had closed their eyes or sheathed their knives.
My brother pointed to the corner house.
His lips were decorated with sores.

Stars had closed their eyes or sheathed their knives.
O God, I can see the tail, he said, O God, look.
Mom winced at the sores on his lips.
It’s sticking out from behind the house.

O God, see the tail, he said, Look at the goddamned tail.
He sat cross-legged, weeping on the front steps.
Mom finally saw it, a hellish vision, my brother.
O God, O God, she said. 

Photo

Variation On The Word Sleep by Margaret Atwood

Variation On The Word Sleep by Margaret Atwood

(via hippiecrypt)

Quote
"April is the cruellest month…"

— T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land (via proustitute)

Photo
apoetreflects:

Unending Love
I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times In life after life, in age after age, forever. My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs, That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms, In life after life, in age after age, forever. Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, it’s age-old pain, It’s ancient tale of being apart or together. As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge, Clad in the light of a pole-star piercing the darkness of time: You become an image of what is remembered forever. You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount. At the heart of time, love of one for another. We have played along side millions of lovers, shared in the same  Shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell— Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever. Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you The love of all man’s days both past and forever: Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life. The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours— And the songs of every poet past and forever.
—Rabindranath Tagore, from Selected Poems (Penguin Classics, 2005)

apoetreflects:

Unending Love

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times
In life after life, in age after age, forever.
My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,
That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms,
In life after life, in age after age, forever.

Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, it’s age-old pain,
It’s ancient tale of being apart or together.
As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,
Clad in the light of a pole-star piercing the darkness of time:
You become an image of what is remembered forever.

You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.
At the heart of time, love of one for another.
We have played along side millions of lovers, shared in the same
Shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell—
Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

Today it is heaped at your feet, it has found its end in you
The love of all man’s days both past and forever:
Universal joy, universal sorrow, universal life.
The memories of all loves merging with this one love of ours—
And the songs of every poet past and forever.

—Rabindranath Tagore, from Selected Poems (Penguin Classics, 2005)