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@zwergis-spilledink
School assignment was about playing with the formatting of text while writing so I did what I always do and made it about living with anxiety and depression baybeeeeeeee
Anyway now I have something to show people who are blessed enough to not deal with this and maybe they’ll get it!!!!
Goatsong, Leila Chatti
09/04/2026 • every time @softinvasions writes a villanelle about how sonnets suck i write another suckful sonnet*. metrical malpractice!
*sonnets do not even have to have 14 lines if you are pure of heart and sonnetpilled enough
also a poem from the new, unreleased collection. very possibly my own all-time favourite.
I can't describe how much I love this poem. I want to hug it.
amir khusrow (1253–1325 CE)
This is back on my dash! And listen, I love to see Amir Khusrau getting appreciation, but this translation ignores a lot. The original rhymes! And scans! And does playful things with register! And conveys a tone of affectionate banter between the two speakers, not least because it has them both addressing each other as sakhi (translated above as “girl”) in the last two lines. I think taking some liberties with line order is worth it to preserve more of the rest—and I think there’s a better translation of sakhi. And so:
He only visits once a year, I splurge big on him when he’s here, His kisses make my tastebuds tango. Who, bitch, your man? Nah, bitch, a mango.
Naomi Shihab Nye, “Sifter.” A Maze Me: Poems for Girls
[text description:
When our English teacher gave
our first writing invitation of the year,
Become a kitchen implement
in 2 descriptive paragraphs, I did not think
butcher knife or frying pan,
I thought immediately
of soft flour showering through the little holes
of the sifter and the sifter’s pleasing circular
swishing sound, and wrote it down.
Rhoda became a teaspoon,
Roberto a funnel,
Jim a muffin tin
and Forrest a soup pot.
We read our paragraphs out loud.
Abby was a blender. Everyone laughed
and acted but the more we thought about it,
we were all everything in the whole kitchen,
drawers and drainers,
singing teapot and grapefruit spoon
with serrated edges, we were all the
empty cup, the tray.
This, said our teacher, is the beauty of metaphor.
It opens doors.
What I could not know then
was how being a sifter
would help me all year long.
When bad days came
I would close my eyes and feel them passing
through the tiny holes.
When good days came
I would try to contain them gently
the way flour remains
in the sifter until you turn the handle.
Time, time. I was a sweet sifter in time
and no one ever knew.
/end description]
what are ur fave poems of all-time?
hi 💌 here are some:
“Hanging Fire” by Audre Lorde
“Tired” by Langston Hughes
“Having a Coke with You” by Frank O'Hara
“I felt a Funeral, in my Brain” by Emily Dickinson
“When the Pawn…” by Fiona Apple
“Love After Love” by Derek Walcott
“Mayakovsky” by Frank O'Hara
“i like my body when it is with your” by E. E. Cummings
“New Year's Eve Prayer” by Jeff Buckley
“Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver
“In this short Life that only lasts an hour” by Emily Dickinson
“Tulips” by Sylvia Plath
“We Have Not Long to Love” by Tennessee Williams
“A great Hope fell” by Emily Dickinson
“Poem” by Langston Hughes
“Baudelaire” by Delmore Schwartz
“Sometimes I Pretend” by Naomi Shihab Nye
“Yellow” by Anne Sexton
“What Was Once the Largest Shopping Center in Northern Ohio Was Built Where There Had Been a Pond I Used to Visit Every Summer Afternoon” by Mary Oliver
“Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath
“Sapphics” by William Faulkner
“Summer Morning” by Mary Oliver
“You Are Tired (I Think)” by E. E. Cummings
“Sifter” by Naomi Shihab Nye
“Emergency Management” by Camille Rankine
“Thanksgiving 2006” by Ocean Vuong
“Litany” by Langston Hughes
“Suicide in the Trenches” by Siegfried Sassoon
“Richard Cory” by Edwin Arlington Robinson
“I heard a Fly buzz - when I died” by Emily Dickinson
“Warning” by Jenny Joseph
“[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]” by E. E. Cummings
“Love Sorrow” by Mary Oliver
“My Heart” by Frank O'Hara
“Conversations About Home (at the Deportation Centre)” by Warsan Shire
“Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out” by Richard Siken
“Limited but Fertile Possibilities Are Offered by This Brochure” by Marge Piercy
“The Thing Is” by Ellen Bass
“Mad Girl's Love Song” by Sylvia Plath
“The Century’s Decline” by Wislawa Szymborska
“A Primer For The Small Weird Loves” by Richard Siken
“Unpainted Door” by Louise Glück
“Spring Torrents” by Sara Teasdale
“Spring has come back again” by Rainer Maria Rilke
“Homesickness” by Marina Tsvetaeva
“Don't Hesitate” by Mary Oliver
“There's a certain Slant of light” by Emily Dickinson
“Poem for Haruko” by June Jordan
“Rain” by Roberto Bolaño
“To Be Human Is to Sing Your Own Song” by Mary Oliver
“Toward a City That Sings” by June Jordan
“Edward the Confessor” by Eileen Myles
“Song of Myself” by Walt Whitman
A Drink of Water by Jeffrey Harrison
Baked Goods
By Aimee Nezhukumatathil Flour on the floor makes my sandals slip and I tumble into your arms.
Too hot to bake this morning but blueberries begged me to fold them
into moist muffins. Sticks of rhubarb plotted a whole pie. The windows
are blown open and a thickfruit tang sneaks through the wire screen
and into the home of the scowly lady who lives next door. Yesterday, a man
in the city was rescued from his apartment which was filled with a thousand rats.
Something about being angry because his pet python refused to eat. He let the bloom
of fur rise, rise over the little gnarly blue rug, over the coffee table, the kitchen countertops
and pip through each cabinet, snip at the stumpy bags of sugar,
the cylinders of salt. Our kitchen is a riot of pots, wooden spoons, melted butter.
So be it. Maybe all this baking will quiet the angry voices next door, if only
for a brief whiff. I want our summers
to always be like this — a kitchen wrecked with love, a table overflowing with baked goods warming the already warm air. After all the pots
are stacked, the goodies cooled, and all the counters wiped clean — let us never be rescued from this mess.
Round 2, Match 14:
Choose your favorite queer character
James Flint (Black Sails)
Armand (Interview with the Vampire)
Propaganda
As a longtime Anne Rice fan, I can DEFINITELY vote on this. Fuck Armand, sincerely. Flint needs to clear this or I rage. 😂🤬
Me: OMG IT'S MY TEENAGE CRUSH VS MY GAY HUSBAND, HOW DO I EVEN CHOOSE?? 😱
Also Me: *slams that Flint button* Sorry, Armand 😏
judy grahn, ah love, you smell of petroleum
[Image ID: the poem "Ah, Love, you smell of petroleum" by Judy Grahn (1985)
Ah, Love, you smell of petroleum
and overwork
with grease on your fingernails,
paint in your hair
there is a pained look on your eye
from no appreciation
you speak to me of the lilacs
and appleblossoms we ought to have
the banquets we should be serving,
afterwards rubbing each other for hours
with tenderness and genuine
olive oil
someday. Meantime here is your cracked plate
with spaghetti. Wash your hands &
touch me, praise
my cooking. I shall praise your calluses.
we shall dance in the kitchen
of our imagination.
End ID.]
i like my body when it is with your, e. e. cummings
also a poem from the new, unreleased collection. very possibly my own all-time favourite.
from so far so good: final poems 2014-2018 by ursula k. le guin
Looking Back
Remember me before I was a heap of salt,
the laughing child who seldom did
as she was told or came when she was called,
the merry girl who became Lot’s bride,
the happy woman who loved her wicked city.
Do not remember me with pity.
I saw you plodding on ahead
into the desert of your pitiless faith.
Those springs are dry, that earth is dead.
I looked back, not forward, into death.
Forgiving rains dissolve me, and I come
still disobedient, still happy, home.
reading poetry forces you to ask wrenching, necessary, impossible questions, like "is the author stupid? or am I?"
on watching a parent age
i saw somebody say “what if you’re gone and i haven’t become anything yet” and basically that broke me on a random thursday evening
OP do you have a poetry book for sale
