[weltenwellen]

Wildness Before Something Sublime Leila Chatti

[kocalls]

[girlfictions]

Mary Oliver, from On Meditating, Sort Of

[nevver]

In for the night, Heidrun Rathgeb

[kafk-a]

Material as Metaphor, Anni Albers

[wheatormeat]

I made a little zine!

You can download and print it yourself for free here

[havingapoemwithyou]

forfeiting my mystic by Kaveh Akbar

[ghoti-and-us]

Shaun Tan - Moonfish

[seekingstars]

I Cannot Say I Did Not - Sharon Olds

[kiisuuumii]

Maggie Smith, "Poem with a Line from Bluets," Good Bones

[luthienne]

These days, all I talk about and think about is the cognitive dissonance required to move through the world. Increasingly, I struggle to disentangle my many selves, to get on with the day. All my selves weep often. I try to have grace. I tell my friends that I’m no longer sure how anyone just drifts through the days, the months, without acknowledging the horrors. I imagine what it must be like to be able to turn off the parts of the world that unsettle you. It must feel like existing in an animated universe that adheres to cartoon physics: you fall from an inconceivable height and, landing, a cloud of dust billows up from the ground, but then you shake yourself off and keep moving.

Hanif Abdurraqib, from Zohran Mamdani and Mahmoud Khalil are in on the Joke

[firstfullmoon]

About the dark matter holding together the universe, poet and astrophysicist Rebecca Elson writes, “It’s as if all there were, were fireflies / and from them you could infer the meadow.” I saw so many fireflies today; I marched and chanted and wept with 150,000 of them. In my head: At least we are many, at least we are many, at least we are many. We are making a light that proves the existence of a meadow you can’t yet see. It’s a green bright place where children everywhere are allowed to grow old. You can join us there if you like.

— Kaveh Akbar, At Least We Are Many: Resisting the Drums of War

[ololygas]

Mary Ruefle

[catilinas]

Franny Choi, Soft Science

[apoemaday]

Death Again

by Jim Harrison

Let’s not get romantic or dismal about death. Indeed it’s our most unique act along with birth. We must think of it as cooking breakfast, it’s that ordinary. Break two eggs into a bowl or break a bowl into two eggs. Slip into a coffin after the fluids have been drained, or better yet, slide into the fire. Of course it’s a little hard to accept your last kiss, your last drink, your last meal about which the condemned can be quite particular as if there could be a cheeseburger sent by God. A few lovers sweep by the inner eye, but it’s mostly a placid lake at dawn, mist rising, a solitary loon call, and staring into the still, opaque water. We’ll know as children again all that we are destined to know, that the water is cold and deep, and the sun penetrates only so far.

[siltmedallion]

Octavia Butler on why she writes

[ferrralit]