Posts tagged poetry.
Say tomorrow doesn’t come.
Say the moon becomes an icy pit.
Say the sweet-gum tree is petrified.
Say the sun’s a foul black tire fire.
Say the owl’s eyes are pinpricks.
Say the raccoon’s a hot tar stain.
Say the shirt’s plastic ditch-litter.
Say the kitchen’s a cow’s corpse.
Say we never get to see it: bright
future, stuck like a bum star, never
coming close, never dazzling.
Say we never meet her. Never him.
Say we spend our last moments staring
at each other, hands knotted together,
clutching the dog, watching the sky burn.
Say, It doesn’t matter. Say, That would be
enough. Say you’d still want this: us alive,
right here, feeling lucky.
this is actually so powerful wtf Shel Silverstein
i love shel so much
I shall be as good as new.
The horse’s pain never imagines a house beyond the storm. Its mirrored breath forms a force that dies without noise. The ice in a sickened room is not salt. Its perfume pours a rain that deletes the tacit skin.
No one’s fated or doomed to love anyone.
The accidents happen, we’re not heroines,
they happen in our lives like car crashes,
books that change us, neighborhoods
we move into and come to love.
Tristan und Isolde is scarcely the story,
women at least should know the difference
between love and death. No poison cup,
Adrienne Rich (via rachelfershleiser)
This is a portion of the seventeenth of the Twenty-One Love Poems found in the middle section of Rich’s The Dream of Common Language: Poems 1974-1977. Look for a new edition in bookstores this April.
Blossoms of babies
Blinking their stories
On the dusk and the babble;
Little red gamblers,
Handfuls that slept in the dust.
Summers of rain,
Winters of drift,
Tell of the years;
And they go back
Who came soft—
Back to the sod,
To silence and dust;
My glass is filled, my pipe is lit,
My den is all a cosy glow;
And snug before the fire Isit,
And wait to feel the old year go.
I dedicate to solemn thought
Amid my too-unthinking days,
This sober moment, sadly fraught
With much of blame, with little praise.
Old Year! upon the Stage of Time
You stand to bow your last adieu;
A moment, and the prompter’s chime
Will ring the curtain down on you.
Your mien is sad, your step is slow;
You falter as a Sage in pain;
Yet turn, Old Year, before you go,
And face your audience again.
That sphinx-like face, remote austere,
Let us all read, whate’er the cost:
O Maiden! why that bitter tear?
Is it for dear one you have lost?
Is it for fond illusion gone?
For trust lover proved untrue?
O sweet girl-face, so sad, so wan
What hath the Old Year meant to you?
And you, O neighbour on my right
So sleek, so prosperously clad!
What see you in that aged wight
That makes our smile so gay and glad?
What opportunity unmissed?
What golden gain, what pride of place?
What splendid hope? O Optimist!
What read you in that withered face?
And You, deep shrinking in the gloom,
What find you in that filmy gaze?
What menace of tragic doom?
What dark, condemning yesterdays?
What urge to crime, what evil done?
What cold, confronting shape of fear?
O haggard, haunted, hidden One
What see you in the dying year?
And so from face to face I filt,
The countless eyes that stare and stare;
Some are approbation lit,
And some are shadowed with despair.
Some show a smile and some a frown;
Some joy and hope, some pain and woe:
Enough! Oh, ring the curtain down!
Old weary year! It’s time to go.
My pipe is out, my glass is dry;
My fire almost ashes too;
But once again, before you go,
And I prepare to meet the New:
Old Year! a parting word that’s true,
For we’ve been comrades, you and I —
I thank God for each day of you;
There! bless you now! Old Year, good-bye!
-Robert W. Service
as we got closer to Michigan Central Station
and you pulled over, across from the
Victorian falling apart further with ever gust
of Canadian wind, despite the graffiti on its side reminding us all,
“it’s okay,” you asked if I wanted to
get out and take a picture of this
great city gone
to ruin just
i said no.
the car was just
fine and didn’t the guidebook
say to stay in the car.
no windows, a skeleton of
the Champion City, the air circling
the left-over ticket stubs back
to the cities they came from and went to
like you, back to New York City,
the city you can’t beat down even
without the Spirit of Iron Fist
and now they’re all calling me
to join them in the silence. they
the lonely, everywhere.
they could hear my trains
as you boarded
“Matthew Dickman is big news. He is a lifeboat full of champagne and asthma inhalers; and his abundant talent and Indie-rock spirit are humanizing and reviving American poetry. His work will make you love poetry again.” —Tony Hoagland
Tumblr, we’re fond of this little excerpt from one of Matthew Dickman’s poems called “Dear Space” and thought you might like it too:
The woman I love has gone
to bed early
so I can be alone in the living room, alone
in the manic universe of August,
just me arranging
and rearranging the books like someone
packing and repacking their parachute
only I’m not jumping, only maybe the books are not
what’s saving me anymore. Maybe now
it’s reruns of The Donna Reed Show
or the Marx Brothers
or movies about people who are funny
all the time. I keep watching the same rap
video on YouTube
about the stacks of money
and what’s going to happen
Add Mayakovsky’s Revolver to your to-read shelf on Goodreads. This
lifeboat full of champagne and asthma-inhalersmust-have book of poems will be available on October 1st.
this man is a god.
I will remember the kisses, our lips raw with love,
and how you gave me everything you had
and how I offered you what was left of me.
Rick Moody has one of the coolest tattoos possible (in our opinion), because it’s part of Shelley Jackson’s Skin project, a 2095-word story published exclusively in tattoos, one word each on as many willing volunteers, so it can never be read in its proper order, but just exists, pulsing, out in the world at all times. Photo via NY Press.
Now this, I would do.
brilliant. how do i sign up?
your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight