#silverchest

[thebluesthour]

The usual morning glories / twist up through banks of gone-wild-by-now holly; / crickets for song, morphos for their glamour, which / is quiet-—blue, and quiet.

Carl Phillips, from “Silverchest”, Silverchest

[cmacaulays]

“Let memory be

the only piece of evidence that you hold on to. Not leaves,

but—what is no less real—the ghosts of leaves. Do

what you must, but softly, soft as rain just beginning to turn to snow

at the cusp of winter.—Don’t worry. This too is love.”

— Carl Phillips, from ‘Snow Globe’

[lifeinpoetry]

It is hard to see anyone who has become / like your own body to you. And now I can’t forget.

Carl Phillips, from “Just the Wind for a Sound, Softly,” Silverchest

[lovelyonism]

So the dead become earth and then nothing, things that will never matter not in the way they used to, for-                                                           yes, they used to, or so we tell ourselves, pretending grief is like that.

Carl Phillips from Silverchest, “And Other Animals”

[lifeinpoetry]

In the end, desire may turn out to be no different from any other song—                                                                       sing, and be at last released from it.

— Carl Phillips, from “So the Mind Like a Gate Swings Open,” Silverchest

[lifeinpoetry]

You: the dark that nothing, not even the light, displaces. You, who have been the single leaf that won’t stop tossing, among the others. For you.

— Carl Phillips, from “Silverchest,” Silverchest

[lovelyonism]

Tragedies are happening everywhere in the world, beside things that aren't technically tragedies, though they include suffering, pain, death in its more humiliating versions, to remind that some of us will be less spared, and some will not.

Carl Phillips from Silverchest, “But Waves, They Scatter”

[lovelyonism]

I think we ruin or we save ourselves.

Carl Phillips, from Silverchest, “Neon”