#maya owen

[lifeinpoetry]

Yes, I can admit the world is beautiful, even if it’s difficult to live, like slicing your thumb on a toothed jewel.

— Maya Owen, from “Not So Long Ago, Girls Like Me Were Given Lobotomies,” published in Muzzle

[bostonpoetryslam]

There’s a kind of translucence peculiar not to the seen, but the seer. And what is the work of women and seers? To tend the world’s wounded knowledge. Who believes us? and who is believed? Our resistance—to unmake a snag of the heart.

Maya Owen, “A History of Madness,” published in The Shallow Ends

[mortalpractice]

--- Maya Owen, “Carte Blanche,” published in Cleaver Magazine

[lifeinpoetry]

. . . though my mind is torn and burned, and though it’s true

that I swell and diminish, and God, might as well be battened to moonlight—I swear there are rooms in me pure-filled with music. There are gentler darknesses.

— Maya Owen, from “Not So Long Ago, Girls Like Me Were Given Lobotomies,” published in Muzzle

[lifeinpoetry]

I mean it, I’d give anything to stay. Just for that—and sudden trees and common music and the dark and gentle fact of being touchable. Because

the world is beautiful, and contains the people I love, and who would be tenderer with them?

— Maya Owen, from “Not So Long Ago, Girls Like Me Were Given Lobotomies,” published in Muzzle

[mortalpractice]

Today, the pure unrelenting magnificence of life could undo me. Joy is a horse, galloping through the stomach, foaling in the throat. Joy could undo me.

Maya Owen, from “Hallelujah,” published in Dialogist

[imaginemirage]

"I mean it, I'd give anything to stay. Just for that- and sudden trees and common music and the dark and gentle fact of being touchable. Because the world is beautiful, and contains the people I love, and who would be tenderer with them?"

Maya Owen

[thewriterscaravan]

is only the fossil left before the flood is only a convenient series of words is only a poem is only a poem is

Maya Owen's "Closure", from Cyberhex Journal