Word Wracked.

isy. 31. adventures in poetry. sidebar image © centophobia.

[wordwracked]

I'm sorry this blog is so empty! I've been trying to publish my poems in journals, and if they've appeared online, they're considered 'self-published.' Thusly, I can't put them up here first.

It makes me sad, too. 

[fonteyns]

[fonteyns]

17.365

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I offer up instead with creaking bones, with hands that still shake, memories well-steeped in the sour musk of loss -  buried deep and heart-clutched, they make an acceptable sacrifice. scoured now, sated, the wind retires anger lodged between its teeth.

© crt.

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In daily life we never really understand each other, neither complete clairvoyance nor complete confessional exists. We know each other approximately,  by external signs, and these serve well enough as a basis for society and even for intimacy. E. M. Forster, Aspects of the Novel

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travelers

I wake up late, the moon, dragging her weight slowly, lazily up into the night sky. She is different, that moon over every city I have tried but below her, my head pillowed against the concrete or beneath a friendly tree, her light smiling down through the threadbare winter branches, I am always, always the same.

(© crt.)

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curfew

The jaundiced moon hangs low in the summer sky, needled tip just below the treeline where I sit, watching, trailing a thin line of smoke between lips, pressed. Vagrant moon, loitering just after midnight, each of us out to play where we know we oughtn't. Slowly sinking as I watch, leaf by leaf, both of us burdened by some awkward, kindred guilt ballooning like a weight around our necks. A communion of reflected light in the false dusk, fading.

(© crt.)

[fonteyns]

[griesly]

[via topographe]

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excerpt from sycorax.

@ crt.

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Oh, damn.

I seem to be writing a triptych.

About her.

[favoritelittlelyrics]

[nahhhlina]

It’s a basic inside/outside problem. I don’t know where I end and the world begins. My best guess? Skin. It’s the only actual boundary between the body and the world, between a body and any other body. Crush, at its core, is about rupture. The desire to touch, the gesture of touching, becomes dangerous, damaging, after the hand, withheld for so long, finally makes an attempt at contact. Simultaneously, and without pity, the natural world and its physical laws restrict the human form and its capacities. All of us are trapped in our skins and drowning in gravity. Physics is unforgiving. Nature is predatory. We do not walk through a passive landscape.

Richard Siken, here. (via muscovite)

[wwnorton-deactivated20200424]

Butterflies

Inevitably alchemy, the lesser into the greater, morphing to the pupa stage, the chrysalis, but faster, the cuticle of skin sloughed off, regrown, and shed again, each larval, instar meta phase passing through more molting lives than saints — five, six times before the final birth, then into the light, like eyes wadded up, then slowly, with the blood, wings opening. Opening and closing.

Stanley Plumly, an excerpt from Old Heart

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