#Henri Cole
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Time has stripped away certainties and I don’t want to forget the past.
~Henri Cole
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Henri Cole: “This is something Louise Glück told me. It hung over my desk for a decade. A credo for us all.”
(Eat that Halloween candy.)
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Henri Cole, from Nothing to Declare: Poems; “Sphere”
[Text ID: “Did I love him back, I wonder? if / I loved him with all my heart / and all my liver, why did I spit / him into the river?”]
#henri cole#love#sadness#loss#excerpts#writings#literature#poetry#fragments#selections#words#quotes#typography#poetry collection
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favourite poems of january
tony hoagland note to reality
henri cole middle earth: “myself and cats”
minerva s.m. kamra chronic
stacie cassarino zero at the bone: “in the kitchen”
bonnie jo stufflebeam barking dog nocturnal
ron silliman the alphabet: “you, part i”
sara borjas a heart can only be broken once, like a window
karen an-hwei lee song of the oyamel
louise glück afterword
kai nham follow the moon
elisabeth houston standard american english: “re-peat! re-verse! re-hearse!”
victoria stitt the carolina quarterly: “autumn convalescence”
noor ibn najam you smelled like an animal
ben still concept pest control
ray dipalma obediant laughter: “after midnight”
sasha pimentel cats
thanh-tam nguyen a lit match to burn what your country doesn’t remember
sarah abbas collecting words in attempt to keep them the same
julia wong kcomt (tr. jennifer shyue) woman eaten by cats
lisa jarnot ring of fire: “the bridge”
torrin a. greathouse i am beginning to mistake the locust’s song for silence
siaara freeman when i speak of hunger
vandana khanna train to agra: “evening prayer”
ouyang jianghe (tr. austin woerner) mother, kitchen
kayleb rae candrilli sand & silt
antony hecht an offering for patricia
sara ellen fowler shed project notes, august 30, 2019 - la madera, nm
vincent hiscock voice in the air: afterthought
margie piercy mars & her children: “the cat’s song”
eva chen how to bleed a ghost
sayuri ayers cordella magazine: “in the season of pink ladies”
buy me a coffee
#tbr#tony hoagland#note to reality#henri cole#middle earth#myself and cats#minerva s.m. kamra#minerva sm kamra#chronic#stacie cassarino#zero at the bone#in the kitchen#bonnie jo stufflebeam#barking dog nocturnal#ron silliman#the alphabet#sara borjas#karen an-hwei lee#louise gluck#louise glück#louise glueck#kai nham#elisabeth houston#victoria stitt#noor ibn najam#noor#ben still#ray dipalma#sasha pimentel#thanh-tam nguyen
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If tenderness approaches, run to it.
Henri Cole
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Some people speak of poetry as therapy, but I don’t have this experience. For me, the therapy is in finding the right words and getting them in the right order. There is not any therapy in personal revelation.
- Henri Cole
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A poem by Henri Cole
Eating the Peach
Eating the peach, I feel like a murderer.
Time and darkness mean nothing to me,
moving forward and back with my white enameled teeth
and bloated tongue sating themselves on moist,
pulpy flesh. When I suck at the pit that resembles
a small mammal’s skull, it erases all memory
of trouble and strife, of loneliness and the blindings
of erotic love, and of the blueprint of a world,
in which man, hater of reason, cannot make
things right again. Eating the peach, I feel the long
wandering, my human hand—once fin and paw—
reaching through and across the allegory of Eden,
mud, boredom and disease, to bees, solitude
and a thousand hairs of grass blowing by chill waters.
Henri Cole
More poems by Henri Cole are available on the Poetry Foundation site.
More information on Henri Cole is available on his website.
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It's a long game--the whole undignified, insane attempt at living
Henri Cole, “To A Snail”, from Blizzard/Poems
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Morning Glory
I can feel the the purifying flames of summer
denuding the landscape, not of birds and animals,
but of blame and illusion.
— Henri Cole, from "Morning Glory" Gravity and Center. Selected Sonnets, 1994-2022 (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, April 4, 2023)
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Agnostic and uninsured, I eat celery, onions,
and garlic—my Holy Trinity of survival.
Henri Cole
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I grew afraid
and went inside
my head.
Henri Cole, “Dandelions”, from Nothing to Declare
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At Sixty-Five ~ Henri Cole
It was all so different than he expected.
For years he’d been agnostic; now he meditated.
For years he’d dreamed of being an artist living abroad;
now he reread Baudelaire, Emerson, Bishop.
He’d never considered marriage . . .
Still, a force through green did fuse.
Yes, he wore his pants looser.
No, he didn’t do crosswords in bed.
No, he didn’t file for Social Security.
Yes, he danced alone in the bathroom mirror,
since younger men expected generosity.
Long ago, his thesis had been described as promising,
“with psychological heat and the consuming
will of nature.” Now he thought, “This then is all.”
On the rooftop, in pale flickering moonlight,
he pondered the annihilated earth.
At the pond, half-a-mile across was not
too far to swim because he seemed to be
going toward something. Yes, the love impulse
had frequently revealed itself in terms of conflict;
but this was an old sound, an austere element.
Yes, he’d been no angel and so what . . .
Yes, tiny moths emerged from the hall closet.
Yes, the odor of kombucha made him sick.
Yes, he lay for hours pondering the treetops,
the matriarchal clouds, the moon.
Though his spleen collected melancholy trophies,
his imagination was not impeded.
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Cigarettes, love, work, liquor, brooding, despair--
one thing not controlled can destroy a life. Jesus,
I miss him. Why did his eyes have no veils?
Why was the salt of wisdom no good to him?
Henri Cole, “Ulro,” in Touch
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Street of the Iron Po(e)t, Part XIII
Henri Cole
Josephine. Malmaison. Roses. Love.
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“At Sixty-Five” - Henri Cole
It was all so different than he expected.
For years he’d been agnostic; now he meditated.
For years he’d dreamed of being an artist living abroad;
now he reread Baudelaire, Emerson, Bishop.
He’d never considered marriage . . .
Still, a force through green did fuse.
Yes, he wore his pants looser.
No, he didn’t do crosswords in bed.
No, he didn’t file for Social Security.
Yes, he danced alone in the bathroom mirror,
since younger men expected generosity.
Long ago, his thesis had been described as promising,
“with psychological heat and the consuming
will of nature.” Now he thought, “This then is all.”
On the rooftop, in pale flickering moonlight,
he pondered the annihilated earth.
At the pond, half-a-mile across was not
too far to swim because he seemed to be
going toward something. Yes, the love impulse
had frequently revealed itself in terms of conflict;
but this was an old sound, an austere element.
Yes, he’d been no angel and so what . . .
Yes, tiny moths emerged from the hall closet.
Yes, the odor of kombucha made him sick.
Yes, he lay for hours pondering the treetops,
the matriarchal clouds, the moon.
Though his spleen collected melancholy trophies,
his imagination was not impeded.
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lisa frankenstein BTS (posted by cole)
#lisa frankenstein#cole sprouse#kathryn newton#henry eikenberry#liza soberano#the creature#lisa swallows#zelda williams#diablo cody#taffy swallows#cole never disappoints
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