taylor price
trying on a metaphor
Mike Driver
Game of Thrones Daily
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#extradirty
AnasAbdin
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dirt enthusiast
oozey mess
blake kathryn
noise dept.
Love Begins
izzy's playlists!
shark vs the universe
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
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KIROKAZE
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@poetrydividedintwo
THIS IS WHERE THE MEME CAME FROM
Seriously, though, the French LOVED Edgar Allan Poe, thanks in particular to Jules Verne.
He even wrote a sequel to Poe’s only novel, and numerous essays about how great an author Poe was.
By all accounts, Poe (who lived a penniless life in the US) really *was* baffled by all of this.
Reblogging because I never saw that part before!
Sylvia Plath was right
About what?
“Being born a woman is an awful tragedy. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars—to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording —all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.”
Some people aren’t going to like what you write. Write it anyway.
Some people, people you know objectively suck at being a human being, will get more kudos, more comments, more recs. Write it anyway.
Some of your friends aren’t going to read what you write. Write it anyway.
Some of the people you support the most won’t support your work. Write it anyway.
Some people are going to say your characterization is 100% wrong. X would never. Write it anyway.
It’s been done before. Write it anyway.
Your writing might not measure up to the fandom greats. Write it anyway. (I can guarantee they didn’t measure up at some point either)
Some people aren’t going to rec your work. Write it anyway. (And make your own recs)
Write it anyway.
Write it anyway.
Write it anyway.
Jan 1st- A poem a day keeps the psychologist away
My resolution for this year is to write a poem a day based off prompts. So far it's the second day and I'm already late but its all good The first prompt is just the new year in general Another year passes Drifting by just close enough to scar A man sits in his bathtub, knees to his chest Luke warm eddies appear in rhythm Knitting hands at the base of his skull Pressing downwards to find some relief Because the dish ran away with the spoon Nursery rhymes are just tall tales Depicting a tarnished bent tool and bits of painted glass
why haven’t I been burnt at the stake yet
Heck I've still got some time.
To A Young Poet- Mahmoud Darwish
Don’t believe our outlines, forget them and begin from your own words. As if you are the first to write poetry or the last poet. If you read our work, let it not be an extension of our airs, but to correct our errs in the book of agony. Don’t ask anyone: Who am I? You know who your mother is. As for your father, be your own. Truth is white, write over it with a crow’s ink. Truth is black, write over it With a mirage’s light. If you want to duel with a falcon soar with the falcon. If you fall in love with a woman, be the one, not she, who desires his end. Life is less alive than we think but we don’t think of the matter too much lest we hurt emotions’ health. If you ponder a rose for too long you won’t budge in a storm. You are like me, but my abyss is clear. And you have roads whose secrets never end. They descend and ascend, descend and ascend. You might call the end of youth the maturity of talent or wisdom. No doubt, it is wisdom, the wisdom of a cool non-lyric. One thousand birds in the hand don’t equal one bird that wears a tree. A poem in a difficult time is beautiful flowers in a cemetery. Example is not easy to attain so be yourself and other than yourself behind the borders of echo. Ardor has an expiration date with extended range. So fill up with fervor for your heart’s sake, follow it before you reach your path. Don’t tell the beloved, you are I And I am you, say the opposite of that: we are two guests of an excess, fugitive cloud. Deviate, with all your might, deviate from the rule. Don’t place two stars in one utterance and place the marginal next to the essential to complete the rising rapture. Don’t believe the accuracy of our instructions. Believe only the caravan’s trace. A moral is as a bullet in its poet’s heart a deadly wisdom. Be strong as a bull when you’re angry weak as an almond blossom when you love, and nothing, nothing when you serenade yourself in a closed room. The road is long like an ancient poet’s night: plains and hills, rivers and valleys. Walk according to your dream’s measure: either a lily follows you or the gallows. Your tasks are not what worry me about you. I worry about you from those who dance over their children’s graves, and from the hidden cameras in the singers’ navels. You won’t disappoint me, if you distance yourself from others, and from me. What doesn’t resemble me is more beautiful. From now on, your only guardian is a neglected future. Don’t think, when you melt in sorrow like candle tears, of who will see you Or follow your intuition’s light. Think of yourself: is this all of myself? The poem is always incomplete, the butterflies make it whole. No advice in love. It’s experience. No advice in poetry. It’s talent. And last but not least, Salaam
Dylan Thomas
The tombstone told when she died. Her two surnames stopped me still. A virgin married at rest. She married in this pouring place, That I struck one day by luck, Before I heard in my mother's side Or saw in the looking-glass shell The rain through her cold heart speak And the sun killed in her face. More the thick stone cannot tell. Before she lay on a stranger's bed With a hand plunged through her hair, Or that rainy tongue beat back Through the devilish years and innocent deaths To the room of a secret child, Among men later I heard it said She cried her white-dressed limbs were bare And her red lips were kissed black, She wept in her pain and made mouths, Talked and tore though her eyes smiled. I who saw in a hurried film Death and this mad heroine Meet once on a mortal wall Heard her speak through the chipped beak Of the stone bird guarding her: I died before bedtime came But my womb was bellowing And I felt with my bare fall A blazing red harsh head tear up And the dear floods of his hair.
Dear Father?
You were a fucked up kid, so was I Because of you No problem; mom she did everything she could You should've used a condom But no; I'm blessed and love the people in my life You can't screw up that too You were scared, I get it i am too But shit happens So you had parents who had expectations Welcome to the club But wait I only had one. See my father? Huh such a foreign word My sperm donor was such a flake He struck out three times I should forgive; I wrote a speech about that But I can't U Because it seems that even if I try; you won't A weird phone call; a ton of emails Your sister; who's not even sure if I am part of the family Cares more than you It really hurts; this silence, this apathy But you wouldn't know Because I'm pretty sure now that a heart sized chunk of quartz sits in my chest At least that's what it feels like I shower so much, just to try to wipe away your taint your DNA But I'm never clean But along with your filth there is a sickness A fear that I'll be just like you No kids for me I always say; then I'd have to care or maybe I won't give a shit Like father like daughter All I know about you is that you're dying and living with a strange woman You probably care just as much about her as you do me Does she know?? Do her children know how you've failed I probably have more siblings Fuck you and your selfish needs; I needed a father And I have many no thanks to you, all better men than you will ever be. All because you couldn't handle having a father in the navy Well sails up sunshine, you don't have much longer And I will never come to you, which is my fault but I don't care Just. Like. You.
Untitled
I am a child scorned With searching eyes I scan every horizon Looking for a line that is certain to never resurface My blood leaves a scattered quicksilver trail Reflecting in the sunlight, bright and clear Like a homeless man's spilled change E're he had the chance to better himself Tumbling over riddled stone steps Rushing without acknowledgment of the world The bones in the mountains call out with Hollow brassy voices beckoning the snow To hurl her frozen heart from the curtained peak To show the aloof daisies her desire to conquer, to be adored Sometimes my sight goes blurry and unfocused I see the lines I attempt to trace
be poetic. if you find the way the light falls through your window and onto your bedroom wall pretty, write about it. call it soft and golden as sunlit honey. if it makes you glad to be alive then it’s not silly. you look for the beauty of things, be proud of that. say the heavy rain is kissing you. write about the glow of the moon, the dancing of flowers. make your world magical. collect your metaphors and treasure them.
http://iglovequotes.net/
Clover- T. Zachary Cotler
On a brain-gray day,
he lay on the hill-slanted solar
array with a southern exposure,
toes in the clover
mixed in with what are these
pentagrammatic sprays
of pinnate leaves.
No clover
here has four leaves:
to each one he says
I have seen you before
in the nuclear hazard
symbol and then again (as
again slants backward)
before that, as nothing but clover
when childhood was not yet over
and everything was symbol therefore
nothing was.
Abandoned Things Take Root - Nelly Sachs
Abandoned things take root in the eyes of those who flee, and the doorway standing open on the chamber’s empty throat has lost its voice and does not speak. Bowl of soup is an island with no mouths to crave the flood, Bureau lacks celestial lore. Letters lying there unread are meteors deep in the grave of night and yet their crystal paperweight glows in the sunlight of the window – for the writer writes with clouds: Rose upon a new empyrean and the answer fell in ashes. Bee’s wings in the crystal coffin the flight shines golden through graves and will melt with yearning in tatters on the honey fire when night finally hurls itself onto the funeral pyre.
