@mpeak-blog1 - Tumblr Blog

On the days when we wept— and they were many—we did it over the sound of a television or radio, or the many engines of the sky. It was rarely so quiet we could hear just our sadness, the smallness of it that is merely the sound of wind and water between the many pages of the lungs.

Brendan Constantine, “The Needs of the Many,” yesterday’s Poem-a-Day (via bostonpoetryslam)

odiozinho-blog

cherryblossomgirlbyair

Woman Hating: A Radical Look at Sexuality (1974), Andrea Dworkin

viperslang

When you kidnap a marginalized group’s status, you can’t just acquire the travel magazine gloss of the peregrine; you have to enter the entirety of the disenfranchisement. When you take my name, you must also take my vantage. You must go back to my past, its lamp and limp, amble through the ruins of my childhood home I can never visit again, shelter my grandmother’s embarrassed stutter as she spent 3 hours at American customs because she had in her innocent ignorance carried mangoes for her firstborn son who hadn’t been home in a decade. You must learn the operant conditioning of my own anxiety when I ask white friends of mine to “correct” my work as a matter of habit. Even when you take only the name, you must take it in all its versions, not just the one that will get you the spotlight. You must take the name when it immediately gets airport security with their arched eyebrows calculating how much of a flight risk it might be. You must take the name that is immediately reduced from a lush blue hesper palms to a plastic bonsai because pronouncing it is too much of a struggle. You want the wingspan of the name but you don’t want to risk the arrow that follows its trajectory.

Scherezade Siobhan, from “Llamada” (Published at Real Pants)

ahuntersheart

v.m., from “don’t hurt the girls”

lifeinpoetry

Sky god girl. Pick out the one that doesn’t belong.

Rae Armantrout, from “Advent,” Money Shot (via lifeinpoetry)

Emerald Spider Between Rose Thorns

Imagine, not even or really ever tasting&nbsp ;

a peach until well over 50, not once

sympathizing with Blake naked in his garden

insisting on angels until getting off the table

and coming home with my new heart. How absurd

to still have a body in this rainbow-gored,

crickety world and how ridiculous to be given one

in the first place, to be an object

like an orchid is an object, or a stone,

so bruisable and plummeting, arms

waving from the evening-ignited lake,

heading singing in the furnace feral and sweet,

tears that make the face grotesque,

tears that make it pure. How easy

it is now to get drunk on a single whiff

like a hummingbird or ant, on the laughter

of one woman and who knew how much I'd miss

that inner light of snow now that I'm in Texas.

--Dean Young

#poetryfoundation

ahuntersheart

Say you didn’t have to feel the one you love Grow distant in the parentheses of your arms Say this life and let it be enough, for once.” -Joe Bolton, “Song to Be Spoken, Not Sung”

(via ahuntersheart)

aseaofquotes

Chuck Palahniuk, Survivor

growing-orbits-blog

Fragments for the End of the Year On average, odd years have been the best for me.

I’m at a point where everyone I meet looks like a version of someone I already know. Without fail, fall makes me nostalgic for things I’ve never experienced. The sky is molting. I don’t know if this is global...