loveyourpoetry
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I wanted poetry to do everything for me.
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Anne Sexton, from Gods & Mortals: Modern Poems on Classics; "Where I Live in the Honourable House of the Laurel Tree,"
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Natasha Trethewey, from Thrall: Poems; "Mythology"
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The Poems of Emily Brontë, ‘The Prisoner’ c. 1845
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"My theory is that a poem is troubled into its making. It’s not like a thing that blooms; it’s a thing that wounds. I had a terror I could tell to none, as Dickinson would say."
—Lucie Brock-Broido in an interview with BOMB Magazine (1995)
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― Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
[text ID: I realize full well how hard it must be to go on living alone in a place from which someone has left you, but there is nothing so cruel in this world as the desolation of having nothing to hope for.]
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ocean vuong saying “the page is a fingerprint of a selfhood articulated through language" is going to be etched into my brain for the rest of my life
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𝙰𝚞𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝟹𝟶, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺
𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺-𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟹
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hi lovely, do you have any quotes/poems about september?
sure thing! here are some of my favorites:
“september tastes of ashes. and yet it insists. softly. but it insists.”
— julia de burgos, autumn psalm
“now it is september and the web is woven. / the web is woven and you have to wear it.”
— wallace stevens, the dwarf
“this is september, mother, and here is sorrow bringing me its wrapped gifts.”
— nizar qabbani, five letters to my mother
“september: it was the most beautiful of words, he’d always felt, evoking orange-flowers, swallows, and regret.”
— alexander theroux, darconville’s cat
“i wear september on my face, which is eternal, and does not disappear even if you close your eyes once and for all simultaneously like two coffins.”
— major jackson, on disappearing
“divine september, the moon wanes.”
— pierre jean jouve, after the flood
“september dusk; a crimson flame / died in my mouth.”
— georg trakl, landscape
“it was september. in the last days when things are getting sad for no reason.”
— ray bradbury, the lake
“but september would arrive one day like an exit.”
— clarice lispector, in search for a dignity
“we know that in september, we will wander through the warm winds of summer’s wreckage. we will welcome summer’s ghost.”
— henry rollins, the column: summer be gone
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“The daily routine of most adults is so heavy and artificial that we are closed off to much of the world. We have to do this in order to get our work done. I think one purpose of art is to get us out of those routines. When we hear music or poetry or stories, the world opens up again. We’re drawn in — or out — and the windows of our perception are cleansed, as William Blake said. The same thing can happen when we’re around young children or adults who have unlearned those habits of shutting the world out.”
— Ursula K. Le Guin
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“June 15, 1951 The rain comes down again, on the indecently big green leaves, and there is the wet hiss of drops splashing and puckering the flat veined vegetable surfaces. Although the rain is neutral, although the rain is impersonal, it becomes for me a haunting and nostalgic sound.”
— The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, diary entry no. 81 for “June 15, 1951″
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Anne Sexton, from “The Truth the Dead Know”, The Complete Poems of Anne Sexton
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What a nice coincidence that our best light happens where the books are kept
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Hello. I was wondering if you possibly knew of some poems about sleeping/lying with/being close to someone? When I try a search I’m just finding poems about literal sleep and I’m looking more for poems about closeness I guess?? Thank you!
“I want to sleep with you, fall asleep and sleep. That magnificent folk word, how deep, how true, how unequivocal, how exactly what it says. Just—sleep. And nothing more. No, one more thing: my head buried in your left shoulder, my arm around your right one—and that’s all. No, another thing: and know right into the deepest sleep that it is you.”
— marina tsvetaeva, in a letter to rilke, from letters summer 1926
— nikki giovanni, from “ever want to crawl”
“I’m thinking when awake, how sweet if you were with me, and to talk with you as I fall asleep, would be sweeter still.”
— emily dickinson, in a letter to susan gilbert (dickinson)
— franz kafka, from letters to milena
“it were comfort forever – just to look in your face, while you looked in mine –”
emily dickinson, from the master letters of emily dickinson
— hope gangloff, clothes swap, brooklyn
“When I think of little flowers that grow in grass, and little streams and places where we can lie and look up at the clouds—oh, I simply ache for them—for them with you.”
— katherine mansfield, in a letter to j.m. murry, feb 20, 1918
“Maybe i’m getting tired – I can’t think of anything but nights with you. I want them warm and silvery.”
— zelda fitzgerald, “letter to f. scott fitzgerald,” may 1919
— tove jansson writing to tuulikki pietilä, 1957
“She rested her head against his and felt, for the first time, what she would often feel with him: a self-affection. He made her like herself. with him, she was at ease; her skin felt as though it was her right size.”
— chimamanda ngozi adichie, americanah
“It is late now, I am a bit tired; the sky is irritated by stars. and I love you, I love you, I love you – and perhaps this is how the whole enormous world, shining all over, can be created – out of five vowels and three consonants.”
— vladimir nabokov, from letters to vera
“There you are, and I am very glad of it. You have never done anything to me that was not good; I love you tenderly.
— gustave flaubert, in a letter to george sand, 1876
— holly warburton, study of a couple
“I’m tired and all I want is for you to be here with me.”
— t.b. laberge, the novel of us
“Understand, I’ll slip quietly away from the noisy crowd when I see the pale stars rising, blooming, over the oaks. I’ll pursue solitary pathways through the pale twilit meadows, with only this one dream: you come too.”
— rainer maria rilke, from “pathways”
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