Getting the feeling out

(Any pronouns, adult, side blog) Trying to make poetry that's at least mediocre

[georgiamorn]

IF IT HAPPENS, IT HAPPENS LIKE THIS: 

when i am thirty-three and finally hitting my stride and high-school-me is a young girl i have long since absolved and sent to bed        and when i’ve come to adore the quiet i’ve built in the evenings while the families sit at their tables and i dip brushes into paints       and when i’ve perfected the task of summarizing my life in a way that does not make people feel sorry for me        and when i have quit thinking about it at all, even in flimsy, fleeting fantasies,  that’s when Love arrives.  Love is a moppy anachronism with one muddy shoe wedged in the doorframe at eleven-thirty p.m. on a weeknight, about ninety thousand hours since the last time i even thought to set a place for it at the table           and asks me through crooked teeth what’s for dinner        and i tell Love that dinner has come and gone and that i’ve been making single-serving meals for the last  ten years anyway because i am self-actualized and content        and Love asks me what’s for dinner,    and i forgive Love for tracking mud across the carpet i had finally remembered to vacuum    and i forgive Love for arriving with watery eyes and an empty belly and without calling ahead       because there are leftovers packed away in the fridge and blankets folded up in the hall closet      and i forgive Love for arriving messy        and i forgive Love for arriving late and i forgive Love for arriving       because Love arrived.

[two-bees-poetry]

twenty years across the sea

[boykeats]

November by Keaton St. James

[Poem transcript: ”in the city at night, the buildings gleam whiter than milk teeth. buses pass me, packed full with people who today have laughed or wept or sang, danced around the kitchen with their good news or carried their bad news with them into the rain, asking sorrows to turn

cloud-gray, rise, dissolve. tonight i walk alone to the river & lean over the railings of the observation deck. streetlamp reflections churn golden swirls into the black current: the only constellations that have learned how to shine through the light pollution. i promise myself

that when i make it through next week (because it is when now, not if, not anymore), i will buy myself a root beer float taller than my head, & i will let my mouth get sticky with sugar, & i will name my hunger a blessing, loving it as i love all other animals.” /end transcript]

[merakiione]

take and eat, taste and see (wilt 2)

(ione meraki 2024)

[stolenhead]

"Part For"

[boycritter]

ghost fishin'

[cowboy-heart]

'Driving Home at Dusk in June'

inspired by a sweet post by a beloved mutual!

(ID in read more)

[ID: an original poem titled 'Driving Home at Dusk in June'. Both pages have images/drawings of fireflies and wheatfields. The poem begins:

the air hangs heavy and stiff with its sweet film over the air, the sun has set and with the day’s closing act, the fireflies make their debut. thousands float as if unbound by our own petty rules and I think of all the wonderful words we give them. I pull over to partake in the evening performance, applauding them with every name I can recall: lightning bug glow fly fire devil moon bug big dipper blinkie minna-minni, and even make up some of my own in their honour: fancy flier moon dancer sun fly fairy bug night angel. and in their bliss they do not even notice me, I think of how sometimes we become so used to our daily lives that we take for granted our beautiful mundanity.

the wheatfields sway in a breeze’s respite and I watch some of the fairy bugs be carried off. I gently cup one of the little things, an angel in my grip, and watch my hands glow red with my humanity. I count to five and make a promise before letting it go. as I do, I forget why I was so downtrodden in the first place as is often the way with Summer mourning.

the air turned black and as I climbed back into the driver’s seat, I recited my oath: to not take myself for granted and if I feel tempted to do so to revisit the dusk of this simple June.

end of poem. in the bottom right, the writer is signed as "Ren H.". end ID].

[stolenhead]

"Verses"

[sodomhipped-deactivated20260316]

(x)

[lunchboxpoems]

WHAT YOU MISSED THAT DAY YOU WERE ABSENT FROM FOURTH GRADE

Mrs. Nelson explained how to stand still and listen to the wind, how to find meaning in pumping gas, how peeling potatoes can be a form of prayer. She took questions on how not to feel lost in the dark After lunch she distributed worksheets that covered ways to remember your grandfather’s voice. Then the class discussed falling asleep without feeling you had forgotten to do something else— something important—and how to believe the house you wake in is your home. This prompted Mrs. Nelson to draw a chalkboard diagram detailing how to chant the Psalms during cigarette breaks, and how not to squirm for sound when your own thoughts are all you hear; also, that you have enough. The English lesson was that I am is a complete sentence. And just before the afternoon bell, she made the math equation look easy. The one that proves that hundreds of questions, and feeling cold, and all those nights spent looking for whatever it was you lost, and one person add up to something.

BRAD AARON MODLIN

[havingapoemwithyou]

probably it will be summer again by Catherine Pierce

[hangsawoman]

poem about one of my mutuals :) not telling you which one

[calf-middle]

The Second Voyage, by Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin, 1977

Odysseus rested on his oar and saw The ruffled foreheads of the waves Crocodiling and mincing past: he rammed The oar between their jaws and looked down In the simmering sea where scribbles of weed defined Uncertain depth, and the slim fishes progressed In fatal formation, and thought                                                          If there was a single Streak of decency in these waves now, they’d be ridged Pocked and dented with the battering they’ve had, And we could name them as Adam named the beasts, Saluting a new one with dismay, or a notorious one With admiration; they’d notice us passing And rejoice at our shipwreck, but these Have less character than sheep and need more patience.

I know what I’ll do he said; I’ll park my ship in the crook of a long pier (and I’ll take you with me he said to the oar) I’ll face the rising ground and walk away From tidal waters, up riverbeds Where herons parcel out the miles of stream, Over gaps in the hills, through warm Silent valleys, and when I meet a farmer Bold enough to look me in the eye With ‘where are you off to with that long Winnowing fan over your shoulder?’ There I will stand still And I’ll plant you for a gatepost or a hitching-post And leave you as a tidemark. I can go back And organize my house then.

                                                    But the profound Unfenced valleys of the ocean still held him; He had only the oar to make them keep their distance; The sea was still frying under the ship’s side. He considered the water-lilies, and thought about fountains Spraying as wide as willows in empty squares, The sugarstick of water clattering into the kettle, The flat lakes bisecting the rushes. He remembered spiders and frogs Housekeeping at the roadside in brown trickles floored with mud, Horsetroughs, the black canal, pale swans at dark: His face grew damp with tears that tasted Like his own sweat or the insults of the sea.

[receipt-decorations]

hi!! thank u so much for the words about my poem. genuinely one of the coolest responses i’ve ever gotten!

oh hey! After a while of reblogging into the void, it's very rewarding to know that people have seen the comments I've left them. Thank you for making great poetry that I get the privilege of gnawing on and thank you for the kind ask!

[shriekingpyre]

NO ROOM FOR TWO., ryn selene

tips

[ tags: @hauntedwoman @geryone @hangsawoman ]

[candiedspit]

2018

[irspoetry]

dead air, 8/6/24