You’re the day after Tuesday, before eternity.
You’re the day we ran out of tomatoes
and used tiny packets of ketchup instead.You are salt, no salt, too much salt, a hangover.
You hold the breath of an abandoned cave.
Sometimes you surprise me with youraurora borealis and I’ll pull over to watch you;
I’ll wait in the dark shivering fields of you.
But mostly, not. My students don’t care for youor your lessons from the life of a minor god.
Can you hit the high C in our anthem?
Can you bench press a national disaster?I fear for you, Wednesday. Your papers
are never in order. Your boots track in mud.
You’re the day I realized I didn’t even like him,and the day I still said yes, yes, yes.
Sometimes I think you and I should elope,
and leave this house of cards to shuffle itself.You are love, no love, too much love, a cuckold.
You are the loneliest of the three bears, hoping
to come home and find someone in your bed.“Love Poem for Wednesday” by Sandra Beasley (via atomiclanterns)
I love with my hand, not my heart.
When I draw your face,
my fingers trace your lips.
Crossing a page, my hand keeps
contours; I know that art
is edges.
I touch when I type.
WIth every finger’s tip
I travel the weave of the given.
Hand me a pencil,
cut off my head
and I will draw you heaven.Annie Dillard (via tumbleword)(via thesensualstarfish)
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,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.Charles Bukowski (via thechocolatebrigade)(via chasethedragon)
This is a letter to the worm-threaded earth.
This is a letter to November, its gray bowl of sky riven by black-branched trees.
A letter to split-tomato skins, overripe apples, & a flock of fruit flies lifting
from the blueing clementines’ wood crate.
To the broken confetti of late fall leaves.
This is a letter to rosemary.This is a letter to the floor’s sink & creak, the bedroom door’s torn hinge
moaning its good-night.
This is to the unshaven cheek.
To cedar, mothballs, camphor, & last winter’s unwashed wool.
This is a letter to the rediscovered,to mulch, pine needles, the moon, frost, flats of pansies, the backyard,
hunger, night, the unseen.
This is a letter to soil, thrumming as it waits to be turned.
This is a letter to compost, eggshell’s bone-ash chips, fruit rinds curved like
fingernails, & stale chunks of bread.
A letter to the intimate dark—mouth-warm & damp as a bed.This is a letter to the planet’s scavenging lips.
Rebecca Dunham, “This is Letter” from The Miniature Room (via thesensualstarfish)
“Annabel Lee” by Edgar Allan Poe [Manuscript, 2 p., ca. May 1849]. Clearly sensing that “Annabel Lee” would be his last poem, Poe took the unusual step, after finishing it in May 1849, of writing out several copies, of which this signed copy is one, and circulating them among his friends to ensure that the poem would not go unnoticed. Poe read the poem in lectures in Richmond and sold it, along with “The Bells,” to Sartain’s Union Magazine of Literature and Art for publication. However, it was first printed in the New-York Daily Tribune on October 9, 1849, only two days after the poet’s death, rushed into print by Rufus Griswold, who had received a copy for later inclusion in the tenth edition of The Poets and Poetry of America. Although at least four of Poe’s women friends claimed to have inspired “Annabel Lee,” the poet’s real motivation may be a reflection of his continued mourning for his wife, Virginia, who died two years earlier. (via Columbia.edu)
(Source: drunkshiplantern, via chasethedragon)
Women.
Soft planes,
soft words,
strong hearts.They work,—
fix documents, fix men—
and earn money.
Homemakers.
They are the flexible platform
upon which the world stands.They would have us believe
that they are emotional,
that they are all tears,
all love,
all.Unless that woman is—
a writer.
A woman as a writer,
feels empowered,
falls gracefully,
writes impeccably.They live fast and hard,
and then transcribe it into words.Women as writers
are tough and powerful,
and fit to be heard.
(via thesensualstarfish)
“No poem without accident,
no poem that does not
open itself like
a wound, but no poem
that is not also
just as wounding.”
(via arianesantos)
IT might interest you to know that the poetry-writing boy’s band has gone on to become one that you may have heard of, though it interests me less than I ever would have imagined. We were a good story. Nothing more. He is what I would have chosen when I thought I could choose. So, I suppose that’s the point: Love chooses us.
My husband and I don’t have a great “meeting” story. We met in a conventional way and had a conventional wedding. And in some sense, we lead a conventional life.
But my husband has seen me at my worst, at my most vile. And he has seen me at my best. He knows the things I don’t tell anyone, and the lies that I tell everyone but him. I have made sacrifices for him and been angry about it. Sometimes his flaws are so egregious, so blatant, they are all I see. And sometimes his kindness is so stunning that I am humbled.
And that’s love. Big, epic, fairy-tale love. The kind of love people write about. The kind of love that could inspire a poem.
Sarah Healy
Why do you paint?
For exactly the same reason I breathe.
That’s not an answer.
There isn’t any answer.
How long hasn’t there been any answer?
As long as I can remember.
And how long have you written?
As long as I can remember.
I mean poetry.
So do I.E.E. Cummings, “Forward to an Exhibit: II” (1945)(Source: uminuscula, via thesensualstarfish)
(via thesensualstarfish)
