With my last breath, I’ll exhale my love for you. I hope it’s a cold day, so you...– Jarod Kintz (via pattiocleavis)
The Soda Bread
fluttering-slips: The Soda Bread I left a soda bread for you wrapped in a blue tea towel, on the cutting board a crock of sweet butter and your favorite knife, its serrations worn to gentle scallops. I want you to come home and hold it to your cheek the way you laid your head on my ripening belly years ago to feel our child’s flutter kick. Place your palm in the moist circle the bread...
Philip Larkin, "This Be The Verse"
sharingpoetry: They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you. But they were fucked up in their turn By fools in old-style hats and coats, Who half the time were soppy-stern And half at one another’s throats. Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as...
How to be a Poet
apoetreflects: Accept what comes from silence. Make the best you can of it. Of the little words that come out of the silence, like prayers prayed back to the one who prays, make a poem that does not disturb the silence from which it came. —Wendell Berry, last strophe to “How to be a Poet (to remind myself)” from New Collected Poems (Counter Point Press, 2012)
All the world may not love a lover but they will be watching him.– (via unmet-twists)
These are the guidelines of this blog: through original work [a bit] and through the work of others [a lot] I seek to express the following. A. Poetry and literary expressions that move heart or soul or mind [this is the “meat” of this blog]; B. Photography and art that express essential qualities of mood, unique (or at least unusual) experience, composition, perspective, story, light and...
Beside the River We Hear Them
motherground: So they come down to the stony riverbed and take off their shirts and make a game: a tree root on the other side of the river they must hit with a stone. They get sweaty and yell and sometimes glance back at us. The world it seems fills with roughness and things frantic. When a stone bounces off the tree and hits the root, it’s not enough. And, too, when it hits the root,...
apoemaday: by Linda Pastan It is simply a question of syllables, a word the smallest child may know. But when I say it the sentry in you smiles, and all the doors fly open on their winged hinges.
Theodore Roethke, "The Waking"
sharingpoetry: I strolled across An open field; The sun was out; Heat was happy. This way! This way! The wren’s throat shimmered, Either to other, The blossoms sang. The stones sang, The little ones did, And the flowers jumped Like small goats. A ragged fringe Of daisys waved; I wasn’t alone In a grove of apples. Far in the wood A nestling sighed; The dew loosened Its morning smells. I...
He offered her the world. She said she had her own.– (via unmet-twists)
That dog: I called it Help, and I cried for it.– Natalie Shapero, from “Your Other Heart” (via the-final-sentence)
She was like the moon—part of her was always hidden away.– Dia Reeves, Bleeding Violet (via lastdaysofmagic)
Once I asked a serial killer what made him get up in the morning, and he said...– Sandra Beasley, from “Vocation” (via proustitute)
Your ego’s biggest trick is getting you to spend your entire lifetime looking...– Michael Jeffrey (via colordesignlife)
She wasn’t doing a thing that I could see, except standing there, leaning on the...– J.D. Salinger, A Girl I Knew (via ghostwalls)
Meditations on Death
apoetreflects: You have closed your eyes. A night is born full of hidden wounds, of dead sounds as of corks when the nets are let down to the water. Your hands become a breath of inviolable distances, slippery as thoughts, And that equivocation of the moon and that gentlest rocking, if you would lay them on my eyes, touch the soul. You are the woman who passes by like a leaf ...