delicate. ethereal.

eli | 19 | ftm | poet this is a new side-blog for all types of poetry. ♡

[propertiesofjoy]

rainer maria rilke, letters to a young poet

[luthienne]

Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?

[weltenwellen]

Louise Glück, from “Blue Rotunda”, Averno

[kafk-a]

Jack Gilbert

[mossyshadows]

The End of the Pier - Nicole Callihan

[weltenwellen]

Louise Glück, from “Aubade”, Poems 1962 - 2012

[luvyouforever-deactivated201810]

emily berry

[cowpokeprose]

And could you spare some love for yourself? You have so much. You send it on fiction and friends and fantasies. On lovers you haven’t met yet and people you have yet to become. You shower it on talented strangers and figments of fiction that have provided you comfort. You spend it on pets and pals and many wonderful and worthy recipients. But could you spend some of it on yourself? Have you fed everybody from your plate and left none for yourself? Or are you purposefully not taking the love you have left? Are you saving it for someone more worthy? Who deserves your love more than you do?

[cowpokeprose]

Sometimes love is not the tender hand of passion or the batting of a lover’s eyelashes. Sometimes it’s the bitching and moaning of your very best friends. Sometimes it’s not the rapturous embrace of carnality and connection in a partner’s bed. Sometimes its bickering with your buddies in the drive through about how they may absolutely not pay you back for the coffee. Sometimes it’s not yearning and longing and the pain of cupid’s arrows. Sometimes its losing your shit with your friends in a mostly empty grocery store. Sometimes it’s not the torture and ecstasy of devotion that can’t be spoken. Sometimes it’s shouting I love you and flipping someone off from across four lanes of traffic. Poets didn’t event love, nor should they define it, and just because nobody ever wrote about it doesn’t mean it isn’t good. 

[samsketchbook]

Tomorrow Incantation

[samsketchbook]

LITTLE SOFTNESS

from zine “WELCOME TO OUR DIMENSION PARTY”

[desultory-suggestions]

You're allowed to romanticize life. Every little stir of your coffee, every sip of your tea. The sounds of leaves and snow crunching under your shoes, and the way your breath curls through the air when it's cold. Life is beautiful, never forget.

[dearestdeads]

“As with a wound on one’s own body, it is possible to develop an intimacy with the most disturbing of things.”

— Kazuo Ishiguro, A Pale View of Hills 

[luthienne]

Rita Dove, “The Venus of Willendorf”

[darkearthsuggestions]

the sunburnt shadow at my heels nips and snarls and bites/ but when all is dark and shadows rest, we find solace in the night

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

“It was autumn, the springtime of death. Rain spattered the rotting leaves, and a wild wind wailed. Death was singing in the shower. Death was happy to be alive.”

— Tom Robbins, from Still Life with Woodpecker (Bantam, 1980)

[weltenwellen]

Susan Sontag, As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh