calabronzo

[strykerlancer-deactivated202405]

— Stevie Edwards, from “Good Grief.”

[Text ID: I am not good with fragile things, but I swear I will love all that you unearth for me—your stinted roots, all the tender you’ve long buried.]

[intopermanence]

Each open mouth is a blind spot. Want. Want. Want. I catch sight of myself in a mirror.

Mary Jo Bang, from A Doll for Throwing: “The Chess Set on a Table Between Two Chairs”

[soracities]

Fady Joudah, from "Venus Cycle", part of 16 Love Poems by Writer's of Palestinian Heritage, pub. AAWW

[drowsydrunk]

“…the thirst, the spring, and the siren.”

— Paul Valéry, tr. by Hilary Corke, from The Collected Works; “The Hour,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[geryone]

Smoking the Bible, Chris Abani

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

Where it Begins, Erica Jong 

[ID: The corruption begins with the mouth, / the tongue, the wanting. / The first poem in the world / is I want to eat.]

[metamorphesque]

"White Night", Anna Akhmatova (translated by D. M. Thomas)

[typewriter-worries]

[ Text ID:

I haven’t locked the door,

Nor lit the candles,

You don’t know don’t care,

That tired I haven’t the strength

To decide to go to bed.

Seeing the fields fade in

The sunset murk of pine-needles,

And to know all is lost,

That life is a cursed hell:

I’ve got drunk

On your voice in the doorway.

I was sure you’d come back. ]

[maggotanatomy]

horror and the holy: wisdom-teachings of the monster tale by kirk j. schneider

[weltenwellen]

Nghiem Tran, from "Asking My Mother about Her Childhood"

[notmanthelessbutnaturemore]

An Oresteia (Agamemnon), Anne Carson

[typewriter-worries]

[ Text ID: But the future --- who knows? It's here soon enough. Why grieve in advance? Whatever turns up, I hope it's happy --- ]

[weltenwellen]

Mary Oliver, from “Summer Story", Red Bird

[lautakwah]

where is that quote by arundhati roy about how nonviolence is a spectacle for the oppressor and needs an audience and how people have the right to violence to resist

[lautakwah]

[ID: “Can the hungry go on a hunger strike? Non-violence is a piece of theatre. You need an audience. What can you do when you have no audience? People have the right to resist annihilation” ― Arundhati Roy /END ID]

[metamorphesque]

you seem to know an awful lot about poetry,, think you can help me out?

i remember a while ago i read a heartwrenching poem of a young women recovering from suicide when she asks her father for a specific fruit that was out of season in their particular region, so he drives across state lines to acquire it.

its been bugging me all day sorry if this is random

It's from "Cherry" by Mary Karr

When Daddy comes in, he carries you to bed. Is there anything you feel like you could eat, Pokey? Anything at all? All you can imagine putting in your mouth is a cold plum, one with really tight skin on the outside but gum-shocking sweetness inside. And he and your mother discuss where he might find some this late in the season. Mother says hell I don’t know. Further north, I’d guess. The next morning, you wake up in your bed and sit up. Mother says, Pete, I think she’s up. He hollers in, You ready for breakfast, Pokey. Then he comes in grinning, still in his work clothes from the night before. He’s holding a farm bushel. The plums he empties onto the bed river toward you through folds in the quilt. If you stacked them up, they’d fill the deepest bin at the Piggly Wiggly. Damned if I didn’t get the urge to drive to Arkansas last night, he says. Your mother stands behind him saying he’s pure USDA crazy. Fort Smith, Arkansas. Found a roadside stand out there with a feller selling plums. And I says, Buddy, I got a little girl sick back in Texas. She’s got a hanker for plums and ain’t nothing else gonna do. It’s when you sink your teeth into the plum that you make a promise. The skin is still warm from riding in the sun in Daddy’s truck, and the nectar runs down your chin. And you snap out of it. Or are snapped out of it. Never again will you lay a hand against yourself, not so long as there are plums to eat and somebody-anybody-who gives enough of a damn to haul them to you. So long as you bear the least nibblet of love for any other creature in this dark world, though in love portions are never stingy. There are no smidgens or pinches, only rolling abundance. That’s how you acquire the resolution for survival that the coming years are about to demand. You don’t earn it. It’s given.

[metamorphesque]

from "Ode to the West Wind", Percy Bysshe Shelley

[stlowens]

Marina Tsvetaeva, tr. by Elaine Feinstein from, “Poem of the End.”

[weltenwellen]

Natalie Díaz, from “Skin-Light”, Postcolonial Love Poem

[sergle]

Are you on southern men swing dancing together tiktok?? Huh??? Because I AM