till human voices wake us, and we drown.

[treeplanted]

count the almonds, | paul celan

count what was bitter and kept you awake, count me among them:

I searched for your eye, when you opened it and no one looked at you, I spun that secret thread, along which the dew you thought slid down to the jars, watched over by a saying that found its way to no one’s heart.

Only there did you wholly enter the name that is yours, did you step sure-footed toward yourself, did the hammers swing free in the belfry of your silence, the overheard reach you, the dead put its arm around you too, and all three of you walked through the evening.

Make me bitter. Count me among the almonds.

[mournfulroses]

John Yau, from "Borrowed Love Poems," featured in Boston Review (edited)

[treeplanted]

after many springs | langston hughes

Now, In June, When the night is a vast softness Filled with blue stars, And broken shafts of moon-glimmer Fall upon the earth, Am I too old to see the fairies dance? I cannot find them any more.

[holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe]

from The Crown Ain’t Worth Much by Hanif Abdurraqib

[hillwoodhouse]

[wordscanbeenough]

“Friendship is far more tragic than love. It lasts longer.”

— Oscar Wilde, from “A Few Maxims for the Instruction of the Over-Educated”

[iamjapanese]

Elizabeth Goddard（American）

1. Wave Action Ⅱ    2. Playful Sea II　3. Circular Wave  2003   4.  Winter Wave Beats Upon the Shore  2006     monotypes   here and here

[luthienne]

Alex Dimitrov, from Love and Other Poems; "Love"

[Text ID: I love that instant when an arc of light passes through a room and I'm reminded that everything really is moving. // I love August and its sadness. // I love Sunday for that, too.]

[firstfullmoon]

“You can tell when someone has suffered deeply. Their heart is smaller and it no longer smokes. I want my heart to be smaller, too, more used up. When I look down at my heart, it is no longer there.”

— Victoria Chang, from “Dear Father”, Dear Memory: Letters on Writing, Silence, and Grief (via voirlvmer)

[treeplanted]

one last poem for richard | sandra cisneros

December 24th and we’re through again. This time for good I know because I didn’t throw you out — and anyway we waved. No shoes. No angry doors. We folded clothes and went our separate ways. You left behind that flannel shirt of yours I liked but remembered to take your toothbrush. Where are you tonight?

Richard, it’s Christmas Eve again and old ghosts come back home. I’m sitting by the Christmas tree wondering where did we go wrong.

Okay, we didn’t work, and all memories to tell you the truth aren’t good. But sometimes there were good times. Love was good. I loved your crooked sleep beside me and never dreamed afraid.

There should be stars for great wars like ours. There ought to be awards and plenty of champagne for the survivors.

After all the years of degradations, the several holidays of failure, there should be something to commemorate the pain.

Someday we’ll forget that great Brazil disaster. Till then, Richard, I wish you well. I wish you love affairs and plenty of hot water, and women kinder than I treated you. I forget the reason, but I loved you once, remember?

Maybe in this season, drunk and sentimental, I’m willing to admit a part of me, crazed and kamikaze, ripe for anarchy, loves still.

[mathieulodin]

Les toits de Paris / Paris

[luthienne]

“it’s not enough to look back at the past as at a thing / to shy from, this is not / nostalgia, you must look at it,”

— Carl Phillips, from Wild is the Wind: Poems; “Gently, Though, Gentle”

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

“She’s strong and clear-eyed and unafraid. Can you miss someone you never knew? I miss her.”

— Jeanette Winterson, from “Frankissstein,” originally published c. Mary 2019

[lifeinpoetry]

Addiction is a quiet mouth and it doesn’t care who it swallows.

— Bill Moran, from "Dear Amy," as excerpted in Scott-Patrick Mitchell's Clean: Faith, Abuse and George Pell

[lifeinpoetry]

we clamber. objects pile around us: suffocation sinks in. to let go of all this we must let go of useless things.

— Scott-Patrick Mitchell, from "the hoarding," Clean: Faith, Abuse and George Pell

[wordscanbeenough]

“You must peel off your skin, and that of your mother, and her mother before her.”

— Amy Tan, The Joy Luck Club

[oldfarmhousefallfeatures]

this little space has come a long way

#spring

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