this place could be beautiful, right?

poetry sideblog cause i'm a tender hearted bitch

[wovi]

[apoemaday]

The Grass

by Emily Dickinson

The grass has so little to do,— A spear of simple green, With only butterflies to brood, And bees to entertain,

And stir all day to pretty tunes The breezes fetch along. And hold the sunshine in its lap. And bow to everything;

And thread the dews all night, like pearls, And make itself so fine,— A duchess were too common For such a noticing.

[alaahygge]

this morning i read this poem with a girl i tutor (who’s not a big fan of poetry) and she loved it. thank you paula bohince.

[havingapoemwithyou]

Untitled by James Baldwin

[apoemaday]

Silence

by Langston Hughes

I catch the pattern Of your silence Before you speak

I do not need To hear a word.

In your silence Every tone I seek Is heard.

[havingapoemwithyou]

Lake of the isles by Anni Liu

[extollingtheeveryday]

Maggie Dietz, "November" [ID in alt text]

[lunchboxpoems]

WS MERWIN

[lovinglycerebral]

“Time does not bring relief; you all have lied” - Edna St. Vincent Millay

(transcript under the cut)

Keep reading

[primulaceas]

Mary Oliver, "To Be Human Is to Sing Your Own Song." Blue Horses

[lunchboxpoems]

AN OCTOPUS HAS THREE WHOLE HEARTS

and sometimes I lie awake thinking

about all that lub-dubbing

on the ocean floor and no one to hear it.

What kind of god gives a cephalopod

three but a human only one?

I want more thumps. I want more time.

I want to waste my love on everything.

Give me a heart for Ohio. Another

for a silk butter moon. Another

for the park bench man who swoons

for doves, his quiet hands full of crumbs.

JOY SULLIVAN

[lunchboxpoems]

[lunchboxpoems]

[lunchboxpoems]

THE PRESENCE IN ABSENCE

Poetry is not made of words.

I can say it’s January when 

it’s August. I can say, “The scent 

of wisteria on the second floor 

of my grandmother’s house

with the door open onto the porch

in Petaluma,” while I’m living

an hour’s drive from the Mexican 

border town of Ojinaga.

It is possible to be with someone

who is gone. Like the silence which 

continues here in the desert while

the night train passes through Marfa

louder and louder, like the dogs whining

and barking after the train is gone.

LINDA GREGG

[lunchboxpoems]

NEW YEAR’S

Let other mornings honor the miraculous. Eternity has festivals enough. This is the feast of our mortality, The most mundane and human holiday.

On other days we misinterpret time, Pretending that we live the present moment. But can this blur, this smudgy in-between, This tiny fissure where the future drips

Into the past, this flyspeck we call now Be our true habitat? The present is The leaky palm of water that we skim From the swift, silent river slipping by.

The new year always brings us what we want Simply by bringing us along—to see A calendar with every day uncrossed, A field of snow without a single footprint.

DANA GIOIA

[lunchboxpoems]

[beguines]