sea creature poems

grace. twentysomething. feminist, fossil collector, failed piano student poems // chapbook // about // main blog

[weltenwellen]

Franny Choi, Soft Science

[majestativa]

And when I'm in the mood for love, I hunt the moons.

— Souad al-Mubarak al-Sabah, In the Beginning Was the Female, (1994)

[a-lovers-discourse]

Truisms (1977–79)  by Jenny Holzer

[kosmogrl]

[gracelesss]

The weeds grow when we’re not watching them. Years accumulate while we worry about the weeds. Learning this took longer than we would have liked.

— Luis Chaves, "Equestrian Monuments (A Litany)" (trans. Julia Guez & Samantha Zighelboim)

[muppethole-deactivated20240312]

from "Cherish this Ecstasy" by David James Duncan

[soracities]

“And there it was one of those moments that is the opposite of blindness. The world poured back and forth between their eyes–”

— Anne Carson, Autobiography of Red

[soft-lovely]

loving cuts

[mournfulroses]

Sonya Vatomsky, from a poem titled "Spring Flowers," featured in Salt Is for Curing, publ. in 2015

[undinesea]

Cities and seas, iridescent, intensified.

Arseny Tarkovsky, “Two Japanese Tales,” from Life, Life: Selected Poems

[everycorner]

poem I have in Dreck issue 2 which you can find nowhere

[heavensghost]

Words by Andrea Gibson

[pollen]

Czeslaw Milosz, from "Ars Poetica?"

[o-toto]

“When the piece of a body is left (or a home is left) then the body begins being a constellation: one piece is there! one piece is there! If I leave my hair in the comb in my mother’s house & walk out the door to go to the airport, then all of a sudden the body is everything between me & that lost piece. The body is made up, then, of roads & crickets & azucena & mud. How large we are. How ramshackle, how brilliant, how haphazardly & strangely rendered we are. Gloriously, fantastically mixed & monstered. I have been asking myself to be more attentive & porous—to pay attention to the way every inch of me is animal, every inch of me is earth. I am trying to remember this. Where is my cloud? Where is my sea? What do the lungs hunt? What does the eye have in common with the teeth?”

— Aracelis Girmay (via elucipher)

[flowerytale]

Virginia Woolf, from The Waves

[iamheavymeta-lll]

[whlgrainmustard]

Poetry as salutation; taste Of Pentecost’s ashen feast. Blue wounds. The tongue’s atrocities. Poetry Unearths from among the speechless dead

Lazarus mystified, common man Of death. The lily rears its gouged face From the provided loam. Fortunate Auguries; whirrrings; tarred golden dung:

‘A resurgence’ as they say. The old Laurels wagging with the new: Selah! Thus laudable the trodden bone thus Unanswerable the knack of tongues.

Geoffrey Hill, History as Poetry.