I Wrote This For You

here

[grendelmenz-deactivated20200929]

some sort of love poem

[amirtamino]

a poem with no author

my body does not belong to me anymore. i no longer recognize the clink of ice in summer sun- tan saturday lemonade, sipping memories, once so clearly there. my fingers forget the chords of my father’s favorite song, the first i ever learned to play. my ears forget bedtime stories, car ride conversations, “anything said between 2 and 5 am is forever a secret”. i promise i’ll stay, forgiveness. my mirror forgets recognition

i washed myself clean of you. i scrubbed my skin raw in futile hope that my lips would forget the words that i wrote to you. that my butterfly hands - fragile, flighty - would forget the curve of your palm. that my tongue would forget the taste of chai and how it always haunted from behind your smile. that my eyes would forget your say-you- love-me smirk, your “now or never” disposition, your accusation.

your absence.

[amirtamino]

a poem with no author

my body does not belong to me anymore. i no longer recognize the clink of ice in summer sun- tan saturday lemonade, sipping memories, once so clearly there. my fingers forget the chords of my father’s favorite song, the first i ever learned to play. my ears forget bedtime stories, car ride conversations, “anything said between 2 and 5 am is forever a secret”. i promise i’ll stay, forgiveness. my mirror forgets recognition

i washed myself clean of you. i scrubbed my skin raw in futile hope that my lips would forget the words that i wrote to you. that my butterfly hands - fragile, flighty - would forget the curve of your palm. that my tongue would forget the taste of chai and how it always haunted from behind your smile. that my eyes would forget your say-you- love-me smirk, your “now or never” disposition, your accusation.

your absence.

[sunburnesd]

I have this twisted part of me,

It it withered and shriveled

This empty almost feeling

From not loving you

I wasn’t in love with you

but I could have been

That empty almost feeling leaves me sick

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“Ice in her veins, and the snowlight burning to ice in her head.”

— Michael Hamburger, from Complete Poems; “Arctic Explorer,” wr. c. 1956

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“My lovely November, Have you seen my heart, somewhere in your castle of yellow leaves?”

— A Waltz for Zizi, from “Letter to November,” written c. May 2013

[goodreadss]

I might have been afraid that if I really loved someone and needed her, one day she might suddenly disappear without a word, and I’d be left all alone.

Haruki Murakami (via goodreadss)

[saehanparc-blog]

Nightmare

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

When I paint you, you’ll have a string of pearls around your neck, which will flow on your breast like tears, like stars.

Margarita Karapanou, tr. by Karen Emmerich, from “Rien ne va Plus,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Gentleness is so important. Gentleness of the heart. Gentleness of the spirit. Gentleness in one’s aura. Gentleness in one’s own motivations and actions. Gentleness that is both embodied and practiced.

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Abbas Kiarostami, from “A Wolf Lying in Wait; Poems,” published c. 2015

[lifeinpoetry]

“As a girl, I waited patiently to catch fire, / as if it were something worth wanting.”

— Sally Wen Mao, from “The Guadalupe Slough,” published in The Southeast Review

[lifeinpoetry]

             what I mean is              we all have glass tongues

             and learning to speak / hard truths              invents a shattered language

             what do you think it is I am              holding / up to the light

— Todd Dillard, from “Interview with an Addict’s Son,” published in The Boiler

[buttonpoetry]

She flourishes in the splinters of me. Or the splinters of a man, who was once a boy that thought he would live forever.

William Evans, from Still Can’t Do My Daughter’s Hair (via buttonpoetry)

[goodreadss]

So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul, instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers.

Jorge Luis Borges, After a While (via goodreadss)

[lifeinpoetry]

What I want to know is the ripple effect of disappearing girls. Of making more disappearing girls to emphasize to the world how many go missing. Do they start blending together so we can’t tell one from another? What kind of narcissism is required to make one look just like me? What kind of violence to push one inside a wall?

— Lisa Low, from “Letters, Part 7,” published in Waxwing

[akifkichloo]