alluraclaire

Oct 7 1262

metamorphesque

My delightful, my love, my life, I don’t understand anything: how can you not be with me? I’m so infinitely used to you that I now feel myself lost and empty: without you, my soul. You turn my life into something light, amazing, rainbowed – you put a glint of happiness on everything – always different: sometimes you can be smoky-pink, downy, sometimes dark, winged – and I don’t know when I love your eyes more – when they are open or shut.

— Vladimir Nabokov, Letters to Véra

Aug 31 33471

metamorphesque

text id: [Five times a day, I make tea. I do this because I like the warmth in my hands, like the feeling of self-directed kindness. I’m not used to it— warmth and kindness, both—so I create my own when I can. ]

Leila Chatti, “Tea”

Jul 31 33552

hedgehog-moss

I don’t know what’s more enchanting, that songbirds dream of their songs or that humans use their advanced scientific capabilities to find out what birds dream about.

Jul 28 10342

sweatermuppet

hi here's a list of contemporary poetry that i have personally read & recommend. currently 173 titles, free PDF download to reference as you look for new books to read <3 enjoy!!

sweatermuppet

updated (july 9) to 193 titles!!

sweatermuppet

updated (july 23) to 201 titles <3

Jul 28 28446

savagedefectives

thin places

Jul 28 4796

luthienne

Special Problems in Vocabulary There is no single particular noun for the way a friendship, stretched over time, grows thin, then one day snaps with a popping sound. No verb for accidentally breaking a thing while trying to get it open —a marriage, for example. No participial phrase for losing a book in the middle of reading it, and therefore never learning the end. There is no expression, in English, at least, for avoiding the sight of your own body in the mirror, for disliking the touch of the afternoon sun, for walking into the flatlands and dust that stretch out before you after your adventures are done. No adjective for gradually speaking less and less, because you have stopped being able to say the one thing that would break your life loose from its grip. Certainly no name that one can imagine for the aspen tree outside the kitchen window, its spade-shaped leaves spinning on their stems, working themselves into a pale-green, vegetable blur. No word for waking up one morning and looking around, because the mysterious spirit that drives all things seems to have returned, and is on your side again.

Tony Hoagland, Application for Release from the Dream: Poems

Jul 27 202

penelopemitchell

“Perhaps some day I’ll crawl back home, beaten, defeated. But not as long as I can make stories out of my heartbreak, beauty out of sorrow.” - Sylvia Plath

Home (John Sweeney), The Homecoming of Odysseus (Homer), Christina’s World (Andrew Wyeth), The Haunting of Hill House (Shirley Jackson) and The Haunting of Hill House (dir. Mike Flanagan)

Jun 14 290

softestaura

Grace Elizabeth & Anok Yai for Vogue Japan January 2020 photographed by Nick Knight

Jun 13 5766

louisegluck

I lose my center. I feel dispersed, scattered, in pieces.

May Sarton, from Journal of a Solitude [ID in alt text]

Apr 27 111701

happyheidi

a little bunny looking at the stars in case you're having a bad day.

　　　　˚ 　　　 . ✧

✧. ★ ˚

★ ☄︎

˚ ✧ ˚　

*. ⋆

༘ * 🔭🐇

Apr 16 69

laduree-et-cigarettes

tiny sweetly cluttered bedrooms with soft lighting >>>>

Apr 16 15450

lispectorisms-deactivated202301

from “James Baldwin, The Art of Fiction No. 78,” interviewed by Jordan Elgrably, Paris Review (no. 91, Spring 1984)

Apr 16 13

kvothes

an evening post for this day fourteen of 🌷national poetry month:🌷 a quick primer on blackout/erasure poetry.

both blackout and erasure poetry refer to obscuring an existing text to make new meaning from it—the difference in name depending, visually, on how the text is being obscured. i would call this poem on the left erasure and the poem on the right blackout.

this left poem is called there was an abundance of whiskey by sarah j. sloat, and takes an existing page of a book (“classic crimes” by wm. roughead, apparently) to make a new meaning. it also adds some visual collage elements!

now, this poem on the right—burning haibun by torrin a. greathouse—is a bit different. it’s not blacking out a pre-existing text, but rather blacking out itself. the words and phrases in the lower parts of the poem are just scraps of what is written in the fuller, upper part. it evokes both burning, as though the words are turning to ash, as well as blacking out from drinking and having holes in one’s memory.

people will erase texts for different reasons; sometimes it’s a fun exercise, sometimes it’s a political statement, sometimes it’s making you as the reader grapple with an incomplete idea. hope you enjoy!

Apr 13 26489

pluviophile-92-deactivated20230

Apr 10 231

existential-celestial

speak, March—
no, never whisper—
how efflorescence demands
the fullness of blooming:
it is just the third measure
of this arid spectrum,
but what of timeless unfurling
at the feet of compassion?
is it a lighter longing?
is it a smaller starvation?

perhaps, to bear velvet dreams
perhaps, to yield petal eyes
perhaps, to be tender—

i am tired, i am tired.

will the shortness of breath
dull the newness of Spring?

oh dearest, if this is what
it means to be desert,
this is my song:
my cup is filled—i am
a well of salvation—
i am water, i am water
—to love soft is
to love strong.

− j. p. berame // no. 032117