tell me we'll never get used to it.

[Pamela | 27 | Costa Rica]

[feral-ballad]

Joy Sullivan, from Instructions for Traveling West: Poems; “All Day Long There Is a Bursting”

[pinkbowjournal]

“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. 

[feral-ballad]

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?"]

[weltenwellen]

Louise Glück, from "Landscape", Averno

[thecolorblockcurator]

Nude Laying on Her Back in a Clearing, Paul Ranson

[namedvesta]

Alexandre Schoenewerk, La jeune Tarentine (𝟣𝟪𝟩𝟣)

[ivynightshade]

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?]

[geryone]

The Shared World, Vievee Francis

[exitwound]

ada limón, the conditional

[watermotif]

can anyone hear me

[unspokengrief]

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.’

[havingapoemwithyou]

tuesday by Alex Dimitrov

[smallhoursofthemorning]

It's always Alex Dimitrov

[havingapoemwithyou]

wet evening in April by Patrick Kavanagh

[loreofcardigan]

Patrick Kavanagh published this poem on April 19, 1952 — 72 years ago.

[mildlydiscouraging]

[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.]

[malojasnake]

— Sunrise, by Louise Glück

[seekingstars]

Checkout - Caroline Bird

[weltenwellen]

Nooshin Ghanbari, from "transient"

[weltenwellen]

Ruth Awad, from “Reasons To Live”