#poetey

[godzilla-reads]

I was baptized by my dog today.

I closed my eyes

As she leaned so close

And gently, kindly, simply

Licked both my eyelids.

I felt it as it was,

A blessing.

Maybe her god is kinder than mine.

—February 14, 2024

[victusinveritas]

[hauntedbythenarrative]

Poem of Angela Yvonne Davis, Nikki Giovanni//Alicent Hightower, House of the Dragon

[silentwordsfbp]

Unloved

I am not a woman loved by man

For the strength within my body

Overpowers them and their ego

I am a woman deprived of her own femininity

In a world of battles an torment

A woman wishing to embrace her softness

But finding no escape from men lacking masculinity

I am a woman craving the love of a man

A man who exudes strength and authority

One who I submit to on instinct

And one who supplies me with endless peace

I am a woman not loved by man

-MJ Skar

[illegally-blind-and-deaf]

Poetry because family history and yes

I am a collection of stories from history. I am hundreds of lives coming together into one to create a new life, a new story. Every part of me comes from a part of someone else. Everything tells a story.

My jawline tells the story of a refugee seeking shelter and safety alone in a new country. When I land a jacket to a friend, it is really an older brother who worked in the Great Depression to buy his sister a coat. Every piece I play on the piano songs of the musician on a boat who fell in love with a Canadian. My poise and feminism comes from an English aristocrat who lost her inheritance because of her misogynistic husband. My love for nature is rooted in the Indigenous Australian woman who's bones come from Wiradjuri country, but when I see English countryside her convict husband comes through in a nostalgic longing for home. In every chest-heaving theatre performance I do, a Lithanian girl is performing again with her brothers in a barn. And with every mischievous grin and playful teasing with my family, a Russian Grand Duchess (whom I have no blood relation but a spiritual one,) calls me 'shizbvik' and eggs me on.

I am a collection of pieces from hisotry, and I will hand those pieces down to my children who will add them two their own children.

I hope one day my eyes will be seen in the eyes of my children, my laugh will be found in my nephew's, my live for writing will be sparked in a little girl generations later and that my husband will whistle a tune I always sing.

[elizabethanism]

I lived in the first century of world wars.

Most mornings I would be more or less insane

The newspapers would arrive with their careless stories

–

Slowly I would get to pen and paper,

Make my poems for others unseen and unborn.

Muriel Rukeyser (1913-80)

[lecieldansmachambre]

Chi è nato a Roma la ama, ma chi non ci è nato e l’ha incontrata, a volte, come nel mio caso, la ama ancor di più.

(Giovanni Canestri)

[roachclub]