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Yosano Akiko, Tangled Hair (trans. Dennis Maloney and Hide Oshiro)
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Donika Kelly, from “Love Poem: Werewolf”, Bestiary
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Nike is most beautiful at the moment when she hesitates her right hand beautiful as a command rests against the air but her wings tremble For she sees a solitary youth he goes down the long tracks of a war chariot on a grey road in a grey landscape of rocks and scattered juniper bushes that youth will perish soon right now the scale containing his fate abruptly falls toward the earth Nike would terribly like to go up and kiss him on the forehead but she is afraid that he who has never known the sweetness of caresses having tasted it might run off like the others during the battle Thus Nike hesitates and at last decides to remain in the position which sculptors taught her being mightily ashamed of that flash of emotion she understands that tomorrow at dawn this boy must be found with an open breast closed eyes and the acid obol of his country under his numb tongue
— ZBIGNIEW HERBERT, “Nike Who Hesitates,” translated from the Polish by Czesław Miłosz & Peter Dale Scott.
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i hate it when i cant even write a poem about something because its too obvious. like in the airbnb i was at i guess it used to be a kids room cause you could see the imprint of one little glow in the dark star that had been missed and painted over in landlord white. like that's a poem already what's the point
you get it. you get the themes. i dont have time to do it justice. just look at it its on the ceiling
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holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe
holyisthenameofmyruthlessaxe
Where it Begins, Erica Jong
[ID: The corruption begins with the mouth, / the tongue, the wanting. / The first poem in the world / is I want to eat.]
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Mohja Kahf, “Most Wanted”, Hagar Poems
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Tired
by Langston Hughes
I am so tired of waiting, Aren't you, For the world to become good And beautiful and kind? Let us take a knife And cut the world in two- And see what worms are eating At the rind.
comradesnufkin reblogged
Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz, “July”
[text ID: The figs we ate wrapped in bacon. / The gelato we consumed greedily: / coconut milk, clove, fresh pear. / How we’d dump hot espresso on it / just to watch it melt, licking our spoons / clean. The potatoes fried in duck fat, / the salt we’d suck off our fingers, / the eggs we’d watch get beaten / ‘til they were a dizzying bright yellow, / how their edges crisped in the pan. / The pink salt blossom of prosciutto / we pulled apart with our hands, melted / on our eager tongues. The green herbs / with goat cheese, the aged brie paired / with a small pot of strawberry jam, / the final sour cherry we kept politely / pushing onto each other’s plate, saying, / No, you. But it’s so good. No, it’s yours. / How I finally put an end to it, plucked it / from the plate, and stuck it in my mouth. / How good it tasted: so sweet and so tart. / How good it felt: to want something and / pretend you don’t, and to get it anyway.]
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In Farsi, we say jaya shomah khallee when a beloved is absent from our table—literally: your place is empty. I don’t know why I waste my time with the imprecision of saying anything else
— Kaveh Akbar, from “Forfeiting my Mystique,” in Pilgrim Bell
comradesnufkin reblogged
Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz, “July”
[text ID: The figs we ate wrapped in bacon. / The gelato we consumed greedily: / coconut milk, clove, fresh pear. / How we’d dump hot espresso on it / just to watch it melt, licking our spoons / clean. The potatoes fried in duck fat, / the salt we’d suck off our fingers, / the eggs we’d watch get beaten / ‘til they were a dizzying bright yellow, / how their edges crisped in the pan. / The pink salt blossom of prosciutto / we pulled apart with our hands, melted / on our eager tongues. The green herbs / with goat cheese, the aged brie paired / with a small pot of strawberry jam, / the final sour cherry we kept politely / pushing onto each other’s plate, saying, / No, you. But it’s so good. No, it’s yours. / How I finally put an end to it, plucked it / from the plate, and stuck it in my mouth. / How good it tasted: so sweet and so tart. / How good it felt: to want something and / pretend you don’t, and to get it anyway.]
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eileen chengyin chow @chowleen Sharing one of my favorite poems since childhood.
By the 12thc warrior poet Xin Qiji 辛棄疾, who was sidelined during peacetime, demoted, drifting through a decade of minor posts in remote lands.
Poetry, then, is that which is left unsaid. “My, what a cool and lovely autumn.”
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Heartless: A Valentine's Day story / Patrycja Podkościelny - I’ll eat your heart and penetrate your soul… / Jessica Harrison - Karen / Edvard Munch - Preliminary Study for The Kiss
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HAMMOND B3 ORGAN CISTERN by GABRIELLE CALVOCORESSI
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Sorry! Here’s the poem.
this is one of my favorite poems in the whole world
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good bones by maggie smith saturday . give it up for good bones by maggie smith saturday