i have never loved you dear

asnowilove.com/mypoems

[as-nowilove]

pride has not yet asked me

aloud or in corners quietly

and your silence reminds me

you are no answer: i could not find

burning outside either our

madly subconscious control

they know it’s only a matter

of days before i am

right beneath your pain

picking its lockets and

learning its pace, but pride

does not task me

to try, or access what

cruels in symmetry,

behind your eyes i knew

what could not be

and you are not

what is inside you

when this is why

you keep our room quiet

i will be happy to

speak for the moon

[mournfulroses]

Forugh Farrokhzad, from Let Us Believe In the Beginning of the Cold Season; "Another Birth,"

[paper-wounds]

via

[nomorechoirs]

“Summer Solstice” by Alex Dimitrov 

[thiswildandpreciouslife]

he said "u up?" but Dostoevsky said,

"… she tortures me, tortures me with her love… In the past it was only that infernal body of hers that tortured me, but now I've taken all her soul into my soul and through her I've become a man."

[sedehaven]

Dragonfly

Stitching a dart through

the wet morning sky,

body like a sharp green

needle, veined wings

glowing like a church

window. Light on my

outstretched finger.

Rest, little friend.

The rain has passed,

studding the gravel road

with milky puddles for

you to skate across.

Sunlight burns the clouds

away and sparkles your

body, gleaming like wet

beryl, or green moissanite.

Opalescent eyes, garnet to

peridot. Bright wings

to shatter the light and

break fast between

sunbeams and raindrops.

[beguines]

I have wanted this year to pass and, with it, all its sorrow. But I've started to sense spatial as well as temporal dimensions in the four numbers that are its name, and I'm reluctant now to let it go. A container--in the way it holds things a year might be a container, and this year is the last one that holds alive my grandmother, my friend who died in April and my friend who died in October. When you explain what you've lost to someone, even a person you know well,

you need a new language, and I don't have one. It's like falling in love: you need a new language then, but get by, somehow, because of the way passion compresses every moment into memory (the present both what it is and what it will become).

Aleda Shirley, from "The Best Way Out Is Always Through", Long Distance

[weltenwellen]

Mary Oliver, from “Consequences”, Dream Work

[mournfulroses]

Marina Tsvetaeva, from a poem titled "Girlfriend II," featured in Moscow in the Plague Years: Poems

[undernightskies]

We are soft ones

learning to balance on sharpened flint

with our honeycombed edges

spliced cleanly

like a hot knife to butter.

We are arms-open, hearts-pulsing

but we are also the small sticks

placed precariously by birds

building nests for their young.

We are clouds wafting on a windless day

But we are also blackened and filled

with sharp-edged hail.

Ands we are grateful for this,

for knowing that the world is made

of sand, silt, and diamonds,

of iridescent wings of beetles,

and fang-toothed creatures

and also

reflections

on a slowly moving stream.

[elizabethanism]

Poem by the 12thc warrior poet Xin Qiji 辛棄疾, who was sidelined during peacetime, demoted, drifting through a decade of minor posts in remote lands.

Poetry, then, as that which is left unsaid.

“My, what a cool and lovely autumn.”

[spookfished]

this poem was translated by eileen chengyin chow, or @chowleen on twitter and tumblr! im not sure why the translators attribution was specifically cut out here:

[loveridden1999]

to the young who want to die by gwendolyn brooks

[metamorphesque]

a poem ('my darling dear'), tathev simonyan

[existential-celestial]

“Listen, everyone has a chance. Is it spring, is it morning? Are there trees near you, and does your own soul need comforting? Quick, then—open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song may already be drifting away.”

— Mary Oliver, from “Such Singing in the Wild Branches,” in Owls and Other Fantasies: Poems and Essays

[oneandocey]

Contemplation

Magic bullet,

Made of thought,

If I find my problem,

Can you render it naught?

If I just sit,

And think it through,

Could that be change,

Could it make me anew?

The world is full of danger still,

I fear what I might feel,

Perhaps a thorn could hurt my heart,

Perhaps I would be real.

[mournfulroses]

Rainer Maria Rilke, transl. by Edward Snow, from a poem titled "The Watchman In The Vineyards," featured in The Book of Hours

[rhaenyrastormborn]

there is no such thing as good grief

“big god,” florence + the machine/mary oliver/richard siken/wandavision/jamie anderson/“good grief,” hayley williams/unknown/“i promised no more poetry,” trista mateer/“heaven’s gate,” the wonder years