Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
JVL
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tannertan36
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Andulka
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
trying on a metaphor
Jules of Nature
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@curraw
Where will the ships take you?
The ship took me To the middle of the ocean
At which point it imploded A splinter in the quiet and the slow feeling of Sinking
By grace I am afloat Now a driftwood wanderer A lonely sailor A desperate paddler In a living sea of questions
No more course No more cradling I am floating To wherever it takes me next
Reset the Reel
The world scrolls by— A reel of train windows Projector full of morning light
The world scrolls by— And suddenly it’s film Suddenly it’s a work of art
Rainfall
A lot of things happen but they Happen fast
Like the way a dozen birds disperse into air Like the way rain falls— Soaking you And sliding right off
Life is too short because it’s Too much
Like the scale of molecules As they evaporate Unobservable Except in the occasional glance
Change is every moment Every falling drop You might tilt your head back— Mouth wide— But you’ll always miss So much more than you catch
What story do you want to tell?
Whichever one grows out of me. In all its struggle and confusion and - eventually - truth.
Whichever one I'm gifted an ending to, and whose beginning has been planted - waiting, struggling and confused - in someone else.
Please share an excerpt from a current project
She never did like that tie. The stain on EH’s shirt spreads slowly, seeping its way from pink fabric into the coloured elephants strung around his neck. He was just that kind of guy. Ex-children’s doc. A good one, probably. Too bad his smile looked too bright for a board member. Too bad he got the chance to prove he was anything more than a good man.
dear poets,
how long does it take you to write a poem?
less than an hour
a few hours (1 - 3 hours)
half a day
an entire day
more than one day
if you wish to share more regarding the duration (and technique) of writing your poems, please do so in the comments/reblogs. your answers and insight are valuable to me.
i am taking this poll to satiate my curiosity and to assure myself that i can't be the only one who takes half a day/an entire day (irrespective of the length of the poem) to write and edit a single poem.
i'll appreciate it if you choose to reblog this post. the more answers, the more i'll be sure that the most important thing to write a poem is to "simply begin and write" without worrying about the time taken and the way i write poems. i'd like to more strongly affirm that we can have our own ways with poems, there's no right and wrong way if they make sense to us because eventually, we'll find the (our) right way.
thank you for your time x
I relate to Ruth Stone's explanation: It's like a train coming through - I've got to catch when it comes or it's gone forever. Thank goodness, unlike her, I don't have to run into the house for paper. I can just whip out my phone.
I don't know what it is. It's like I can't put the feeling into words genuinely unless I'm feeling it in the moment.
I wish that I was
Origami— folded up
Till I disappear
Folded until...
These two dimensions
Become three — aimless flutters
Into wings that fly
Porch Light
Our porch light is the colour of fire in the sky. It's the colour of a midnight campsite Projecting off the walls.
It reminds me that we own a fire pit and never use it. It reminds me that I never stay up late, Although I’ve always loved the dark.
I stand under porch light and I am reminded:
There’s a whole other world Illuminated by shadows And stars.
Class to Class
A breeze And the rustle Of fresh fallen leaves.
The churning of water somewhere.
The coming and going Of someone on the phone.
The clopping of hard heels, The scuffing of soft ones, As we all tread Passingly Over stone.
Watcher on the Train
Ah, there, it watches you - half-asleep A warm spotlight on your seat of the train And I would be omniscient - a watcher, too - if I Wasn’t also jostling, and my physicality evidenced By the dust upon my glasses.
Even still, that dust suggests a lens, and through that I watch. Not like the sun does, for I am a poet, you see;
The sun shines upon everything it is able to And I also see only what is in front of me, But I write only when The two Overlap
As they do With you, half-asleep In your corner of the train.
And if you looked at me… would you see Much the same?
I can only pray you are a poet, then. A poet, like me, on the train.
The Sea Tells
The sea and the beach where it meets Are a theme built from land and water.
Delta split and carve, Horizon slash and swallow, Fractured rock tumbles and Millennium churned sand.
Nothing staying in the shifting Feet, grains, salt; all sifting From bones to sand And castaway.
Time breaks things. That's what the sea tells me.
In wave After wave After wave.
Hemophilia of a Lonely Heart
Isn't this place just anemic When it comes to company.
The hemophilia of a lonely heart.
Weathering the fleeting nature Of this neverending beat Without knowing how to bind Makes for a silent, Silent hurt.
Every misunderstood and mysterious moment Is the papercut we live with;
Until, one way or another, We don't.
But Wishful
Every camera is jealous of eyes.
But sometimes a smile Blooms right in front of me, Then dies the next spring.
Birds don't sit still and neither Do happy children—they smile And they laugh and then they Are children no more.
Hugs only last a second. Moments come, And go.
These sights only make me say: “Oh,”
“I wish I had a camera.”
Glad I Looked Up
There are birds on the rafters.
Little ones, Lined up in a row.
There are birds on the rafters.
Had I not looked up, I would have missed them.
There are birds on the rafters.
And that's the reason I smiled today.
Dancing the Shoreline
I danced with the beach today Flirted with the shore In a delicate one-two To see who would claim me The heat or the rolling chill.
I upstep and backstep to Our ebbing rhythm Cross-stepping so as not to be Drawn in by its charm.
I will not let it take I strike a delicate balance Walking the line that It may only tickle froth over My footsteps.
But sometimes I misjudge And in my mis-step it catches me And washes my shins in chill. It tickles my fingertips To remind me
Of what it can really do.
Every camera is jealous of eyes
For they will never know The true beauty of The water's twinkle Or the shine of god rays.
Mirrors will never be as intimate As the reflection in your eyes. They’ll never know The tweaking of your cheeks or The light— The light that dances off them.
The lens will never capture these sights The way these sights Capture my eyes.
Every camera Is jealous of eyes.
Spring where you are -
Location: (can be a general region like “Midwest” or “city” or something)
What it’s like: (observations, ecology, who is out and about, quiet moments, hiding places, etc.)
How it makes you feel:
Location: South. As in, the southern hemisphere - where it’s not spring, but there are a lot of eucalypts.
The weather has been flopping up and down, but it is slowly trending colder. Even as it does, there's still some blooming to be watching for. Not sprouting from the ground, but up there in the canopy.
The spotted gums will flower soon.
If you didn’t know, you wouldn’t think to expect it. These inconspicuous barked bulbs - you wouldn’t think to watch them. I always forget to look up, and the cold months are no exception. I have yet to catch the moment that they split. And it’s not blossoms that come out, but a ring of fibres, anemone-like, their colour near fluorescent in the winter sun. Red and orange and yellow to rival their deciduous neighbours. And to match winter, the spotted gums choose snowy white.
The branches are elastic, so the birds all but sway as they stick their noses into each little cup. It's a feast of nectar. They aren’t as active when it gets cold, so I’m glad for something to draw them out. It gets lonely without them since the park is unpopular in winter.
It also calms me to see that something grows during a time when most things don’t - or we think they don’t. Even though it’s not spring, rainbow birds and flowering trees remind me - we’re all still alive.
