#julia vinograd

[havingapoemwithyou]

ginsberg by Julia Vinograd

[wheredoalltheducksgo]

“poetry doesn’t really speak to me” ok, then try reading:

"Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath

“The Years” by Alex Dimitrov

“Fuck Your Lecture on Craft, My People Are Dying” by Noor Hindi

“What the Living Do” by Marie Howe (dedicated to her younger brother John, who died from AIDS-related complications)

“Love after love“ by Derek Walcott 

“Crude Conversations with Boys Who Fake Laughter Often” by Warsan Shire

“Ginsberg” by Julia Vinograd

“Unsolicited Advice to Adolescent Girls with Crooked Teeth and Pink Hair” by Jeanann Verlee

“Fossilizing Trauma” by Blythe Baird

[dk-thrive]

A blank page is a place to list the creation we weren't given. A shopping list of eternity where we're never too sick to swallow fresh blueberries and where the dance never ends. A blank page is a paper bird to fold up and fly. I can't change anything but I am a poet and if I can't trust God I must speak for the world and my friends. Want more. Want so much more. Test each day and night for ripeness like a melon at the market. You're crucified on the hands of a clock, pull out those nails. I'm throwing you a rope of words. Hold on.

— Julia Vinograd, White I Write Poetry (Poetic Outlaws, March 14, 2023) (via Alive on All Channels)

[woundgallery]

JULIA VINOGRAD

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Karen Mathison Schmidt (American, born 1957) Edgewood Memory, 2012 oil on Gessoboard 24 x 24 inches Private collection Artist statement: 'I’m an artist living in the farm country of north Louisiana, along with my husband, our three cats and seven (yeah, 7!) dogs. I love to paint everything (including the walls in our house) and find constant inspiration in my daily life: dogs, cats, cows, horses, trees, fields, ponds and bayous, morning light, afternoon light ... you get the idea. My work is greatly inspired by the style of America’s Golden Age of Illustration, particularly the work of Howard Pyle, N. C. Wyeth, Maxfield Parrish, Jessie Wilcox Smith, Elizabeth Shippen Green and others. I’ve been painting my whole life, and I have sold my work to patrons all over the USA, Canada, the UK and Europe.” 

- Karen Mathison Schmidt

* * * * *

A blank page is a place to list the creation we weren't given. A shopping list of eternity where we're never too sick to swallow fresh blueberries and where the dance never ends. A blank page is a paper bird to fold up and fly. I can't change anything but I am a poet and if I can't trust God I must speak for the world and my friends. Want more. Want so much more. Test each day and night for ripeness like a melon at the market. You're crucified on the hands of a clock, pull out those nails. I'm throwing you a rope of words. Hold on. - Julia Vinograd

[poetic outlaws]

[litterae-ignotae]

I don’t have a home and I live there all the time.

Downhill, Julia Vinograd

[dreamertrilogys]

1. thriller, fall out boy / 2. how the people we once loved become strangers again, brianna wiest / 3. helena, my chemical romance / 4. litany in which certain things are crossed out, richard siken / 5. she’s my winona, fall out boy / 6. pete wentz / 7. little beast, richard siken / 8. you’re one of us, julia vinograd / 9. homemade dynamite, lorde / 10. @excelsors​ / 11. @tilthat + @pig-in-blankets​ 

[gut-wrenching]

For the Young Men Who Died of AIDS

The dead lovers are almost as beautiful as razor-edged spaces in the air where they used to walk. Do you remember his hand lazily playing with the rim of a glass, making the ghost of a bell sound for his own ghost, and the talk didn’t even pause? The glass is whole. Break it; break it now. Break everything. How can people go on buying toothpaste and planning their summer vacations? Vegetables would care more. The potato has a thousand eyes all mourning for the lovers who lived in their deaths like a country foreign to everywhere for a long time before dying. A long time watching people look away. The potato only met them under the earth after their deaths and it still wept. And we do not. The ghost bell makes barely a sound forever. The dead lovers are still in love, but no one else is. He took his hand with him, a grave is as good as a briefcase to keep the essentials in: a smile, bones, a way of biting his lip just before looking into your eyes. Shoulder blades cutting into summer like butter. All the commuters in a rush hour traffic jam are cursing because the lovers are dying faster than their cars. The child sent to bed without dinner cries for the lovers, also sent to bed early and without. Unfair. Throw the dishes against the wall. Break them. The dead lovers are almost as beautiful as when they were alive. You can hear the rim of a glass tolling for the ghosts to come home. Break the glass, break the ghosts. Pull down the sky. Break everything. Dance on the fragments. Scream their names. Get splinters of ghosts under your skin torn and bleeding because it hurts, because it hurts so bad.

Julia Vinograd