Joy Sullivan, from Instructions for Traveling West: Poems; “All Day Long There Is a Bursting”
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@tilthesunexplodes
Joy Sullivan, from Instructions for Traveling West: Poems; “All Day Long There Is a Bursting”
“This is the solstice, the still point of the sun, its cusp and midnight, the year’s threshold and unlocking, where the past lets go of and becomes the future; the place of caught breath, the door of a vanished house left ajar.”
— Margaret Atwood, Shapechangers in Winter.
Ilya Kaminsky, from Deaf Republic: Poems; "A City Like a Guillotine Shivers on Its Way to the Neck"
[Text ID: "At the trial of God, we will ask: why did you allow all this? / And the answer will be an echo: why did you allow all this?"]
Louise Glück, from "Landscape", Averno
Nude Laying on Her Back in a Clearing, Paul Ranson
Alexandre Schoenewerk, La jeune Tarentine (𝟣𝟪𝟩𝟣)
fatima aamer bilal, excerpt from moony moonless sky’s ‘i am an observer, but not by choice.’
[text id: i often asked myself / do i want love / or do i want proof that i am loveable?]
The Shared World, Vievee Francis
ada limón, the conditional
can anyone hear me
My father is in the kitchen cooking dinner. Pots are banging, and the peas are overflowing. I ask him for the fifth time when dinner will be ready. ‘When it is in front of you’ he says.
Now the kitchen is empty and I am alone at the dinner table. Grief is the only thing in front of me. I am not ready. I wish you had of asked me if I was ready.
I am alone at this table and I am not ready. Patience is not his virtue and grief is setting the table but I am not ready to say goodbye. I wish you had waited till I was ready.
And in a whisper, I hear my father say ‘but here it is, in front of you. Grief does not wait for dinner to be served before it takes a seat at the table.’
— Hannah Green, ‘Knocking On Heavens Door.’
tuesday by Alex Dimitrov
It's always Alex Dimitrov
wet evening in April by Patrick Kavanagh
Patrick Kavanagh published this poem on April 19, 1952 — 72 years ago.
[ID: The poem "Wet Evening in April" in its entirety. It reads:
"The birds sang in the wet trees / And as I listened to them it was a hundred years from now / And I was dead and someone else was listening to them. / But I was glad I had recorded for him the melancholy."
The middle two lines are indented. End of description.]
— Sunrise, by Louise Glück
Checkout - Caroline Bird
Nooshin Ghanbari, from "transient"
Ruth Awad, from “Reasons To Live”