Fuck Yeah, Poetry!

This is a blog dedicated to poetry in all forms. Any poems to recommend? Send an ask.

[valencing]

[msvhs-deactivated20251231]

Mary Oliver

[taohun]

did you guys see the poem from a couple of days ago in poetry dot org’s daily poem it was so good and a treat to read 

[taohun]

been thinking about it since i read it 

[olreid]

i bet your guts haven't even seen the light! loser!

[thefugitivesaint]

Langston Hughes (1902-1967), ‘Tired’, “New Masses”, Vol. 6, #9, Feb. 1931 Source

[devoutjunk]

[lifeinpoetry]

Sometimes

you have to cut skin deeper for the wound to heal, to locate in a different way—running: find your own map on the body.

Inside it. Carved into passage. Sometimes you have to drown to retrieve it from the river-bottom. Where are you going? Home. Land.

What is your homeland? A framing of absence, echo of water. You will have to live with these scars now.

No. I am retracing my name.

— Jennifer Elise Foerster, from “Birthmark,” Leaving Tulsa

[campcowboy]

have not stopped thinking about this poem by hanif adburraqib ever since i read it

[fypoetry]

men want to fix you save you or fuck you I can’t be fixed and I don’t care to be saved

-Jeanann Verlee, men (via fypoetry)

[fypoetry]

Nobody hurt you. Nobody turned off the light and argued with somebody else all night. The bad man on the moors was only a movie you saw. Nobody locked the door. Your questions were answered fully. No. That didn’t occur. You couldn’t sing anyway, cared less. The moment’s a blur, a Film Fun laughing itself to death in the coal fire. Anyone’s guess. Nobody forced you. You wanted to go that day. Begged. You chose the dress. Here are the pictures, look at you. Look at us all, smiling and waving, younger. The whole thing is inside your head. What you recall are impressions; we have the facts. We called the tune. The secret police of your childhood were older and wiser than you, bigger than you. Call back the sound of their voices. Boom. Boom. Boom. Nobody sent you away. That was an extra holiday, with people you seemed to like. They were firm, there was nothing to fear. There was none but yourself to blame if it ended in tears. What does it matter now? No, no, nobody left the skidmarks of sin on your soul and laid you wide open for Hell. You were loved. Always. We did what was best. We remember your childhood well.

-We Remember Your Childhood Well, Carol Ann Duffy (via fypoetry)

[projectiondepartment]

[Image ID: The poem “One Source of Bad Information”, by Robert Bly.  There’s a boy in you about three years old who hasn’t learned a thing for thirty Thousand Years. Sometimes it’s a girl.  The child had to make up its mind How to save you from death. He said things like:  “Stay home. Avoid elevators. Eat only elk.”  You live with this child, but you don’t know it.  You’re in the office, yes, but live with this boy  At night. He’s uninformed, but he does want To save your life. And he has. Because of this boy  You survived a lot. He’s got six big ideas.  Five don’t work. Right now he’s repeating them to you. 

/end id]

[persimmon444-deactivated2021052]

What is it about night walks...I looked into the orange light of someone’s window and felt the deepest sense of peace I’ve ever had

[persimmon444-deactivated2021052]

Just came across this poem ❤️

[letterful]

Is it starting to rain? Did the check bounce? Are we out of coffee? Is this going to hurt? Could you lose your job? Did the glass break? Was the baggage misrouted? Will this go on my record? Are you missing much money? Was anyone injured? Is the traffic heavy? Do I have to remove my clothes? Will it leave a scar? Must you go? Will this be in the papers? Is my time up already? Are we seeing the understudy? Will it affect my eyesight? Did all the books burn? Are you still smoking? Is the bone broken? Will I have to put him to sleep? Was the car totaled? Am I responsible for these charges? Are you contagious? Will we have to wait long? Is the runway icy? Was the gun loaded? Could this cause side effects? Do you know who betrayed you? Is the wound infected? Are we lost? Will it get any worse?

— JEANNE MARIE BEAUMONT, “Afraid So.”

[camelot1967]

from so far so good: final poems 2014-2018 by ursula k. le guin

[fypoetry]

men want to fix you save you or fuck you I can’t be fixed and I don’t care to be saved

-Jeanann Verlee, men (via fypoetry)

[bunjywunjy]

Do you like poems?

yes! my favorites are The Tiger and the unnamed werewolf fridge poem

[re-peysi]

for context these are the poems

[bunjywunjy]

also I almost forgot but the r/ambien Gives Us The Sleep post takes a completely serious third place in my favorite poems list:

[firstfullmoon]

How I’ve changed may not be apparent. I limp. Read and write, make tea at the stove as I practiced in rehab. Sometimes, like fire, a task overwhelms me. I cry for days, shriek when the phone rings. Like a page pulled from flame, I’m singed but intact: I don’t burn down the house.

— Patricia Kirkpatrick, from “Survivor’s Guilt”