#annie lighthart
Note
I understand my story idea was a bit weird, but now I feel like there's something wrong with me for requesting it. Sorry if the Annie and Hange request was offensive or bad. That was not my intent at all.
No I liked it, its silly!
/lh means lightharted and /t means teasing!
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NEW FROM FINISHING LINE PRESS: The Unknown Daughter by Tricia Knoll
On SALE now! Pre-order Price Guarantee: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/the-unknown-daughter-by-tricia-knoll/
Tricia Knoll’s parents were faith healers; she did not always heal the way they hoped. A sense of isolation and oddball-ness permeated her autobiographical narrative as described in her How I Learned To Be White. That book explores the impacts of ancestry, class and education on privilege and received the 2018 Human Relations Indie Book Gold Award for Motivational Poetry. #daughter #poetry #relationship #family
PRAISE FOR The Unknown Daughter by Tricia Knoll
Tricia Knoll’s The Unknown Daughter dedicates itself to the incredible work of Making Known: of naming and describing the complex experience of being a daughter, of asking who we might be as a culture and a country if we took it upon ourselves to honestly do so. Knoll’s book is a beautiful, taut series of linked poems filled with myriad voices, each a pebble dropped into the silencing waters of family and history, each helping to recover not just one daughter, but all.
These wise and deft poems are conversation, chorus, and community all in one: they speak right to us; they invite us in. They give crucial instruction in Making Known: “sing when the first impulse may be to whisper.”
–Annie Lighthart, Author of Pax
Tricia Knoll’s The Unknown Daughter is an un-portrait, individual and collective, historical and visionary, composed by multiple voices constellated via the titular character. This poem sequence strikingly shapes absence from so many presences. It’s a timely reminder that the more things change—socially, culturally, politically—the more they stay the same, and “the unknown” must claim her own narrative.
–Marj Hahne, Writer, Teacher, MFA in Creative Writing
The Unknown Daughter is a worthy monument to a monument that ought to exist. This connected series of poems offers acknowledgement and tribute to those women who didn’t fit the pattern and made major contributions in science and art. In these vivid poems about the symbolic unknown woman, her family, the watchwomen at the memorial, and even an Uber driver (who says dismissively, “You won’t stay long./Tell me if you want me/to drive you somewhere else.”), Tricia Knoll makes her own important contribution.
–Penelope Scambly Schott, author of On Dufur Hill
Please share/repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #read #poems #literature #poetry
#poetry#flp authors#preorder#flp#poets on tumblr#american poets#chapbook#chapbooks#finishing line press#small press
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Lantern (Evening Poetry, April 3)
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by Annie Lighthart
Some evening, almost accidentally, you might yet understand
that you belong, are meant to be, are sheltered---
still foolish, but looking out the door with a contented heart.
This is what the king…
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Let this day born in sackcloth and ashes
shift. Let it change, rearrange. Let it come back
made new and barking, snout pushed to table
with joy. Let it wash us wildly with its tongue
and shake its thick pelt. Let the dust rise off
in waves, in solar clouds, and let our old selves
float up in that haze, particles massed by the window,
motes among a thousand other motes. Now see
our two: we are the two motes laughing as they leave,
the two specks somersaulting right through the screen.
Let This Day by Annie Lighthart
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A poem by Annie Lighthart
The Sound of It
Just a piano playing plainly, not even for long,
and yet I suddenly think of fields of timothy
and how a cow and I once studied each other over a fence
while the car ticked and cooled behind me.
When I turned around I was surprised that it had not
sprouted tall grass from its hood, I had been gone
so long. Time passes in crooked ways in some tales,
and though the cow and I were relatively young
when we started our watching, we looked
a bit younger when I left. The cow had downed a good
steady meal and was full of milk for the barn.
I drove away convinced of nothing I had been
so sure of before, with arms full of splinters
from leaning on the fence. There was no music—
I was not even humming—but just now the piano
played the exact sound of that drive.
Annie Lighthart
More poems by Annie Lighthart are available on her website.
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@tuanti111 on instagram / “The Second Music” by Annie Lighthart
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All this is in it and will be gone. I set my ear to it as I would a heart.
from The Second Music, Annie Lighthart
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The Verge
by Annie Lighthart
Reason is a fine thing, but remember there are other ways
to live: by instinct or passion, or even,
maybe, by revelation. Try it. Come around again to the verge –
that place of about-to-open, near where we comprehend
and laugh and see. Why shouldn’t something marvelous
happen to you? Take even an occasion like this:
A man reading at night looked up at the window to find
a moose looking in, interested and unafraid
with quiet dark eyes. He reports he has never been the same;
he finds the ungainly and miraculous everywhere.
He said it started the next night in the empty window
as he watched his reflection looking right back through.
He said he saw his own beauty, how even in his same old face
the quiet eyes were curious and ready to be true.
Annie Lighthart, "The Verge" from Pax. Copyright © 2021 Annie Lighthart, published by Fernwood Press.
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Now I understand that there are two melodies playing,
one below the other, one easier to hear, the other
lower, steady, perhaps more faithful for being less heard
yet always present.
When all other things seem lively and real,
this one fades. Yet the notes of it
touch as gently as fingertips, as the sound
of the names laid over each child at birth.
I want to stay in that music without striving or cover.
If the truth of our lives is what it is playing,
the telling is so soft
that this mortal time, this irrevocable change,
becomes beautiful. I stop and stop again
to hear the second music.
I hear the children in the yard, a train, then birds.
All this is in it and will be gone. I set my ear to it as I would to a heart.
by Annie Lighthart
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The Second Music
Now I understand that there are two melodies playing,
one below the other, one easier to hear, the other
lower, steady, perhaps more faithful for being less heard
yet always present.
When all other things seem lively and real,
this one fades. Yet the notes of it
touch as gently as fingertips, as the sound
of the names laid over each child at birth.
I want to stay in that music without striving or cover.
If the truth of our lives is what it is playing,
the telling is so soft
that this mortal time, this irrevocable change,
becomes beautiful. I stop and stop again
to hear the second music.
I hear the children in the yard, a train, then birds.
All this is in it and will be gone. I set my ear to it as I would to a heart.
Annie Lighthart
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The children have gone to bed.
We are so tired we could fold ourselves neatly
behind our eyes and sleep mid-word, sleep standing
warm among the creatures in the barn, lean together
and sleep, forgetting each other completely in the velvet,
the forgiveness of that sleep.
Then the one small cry:
one strike of the match-head of sound:
one child’s voice:
and the hundred names of love are lit
as we rise and walk down the hall.
One hundred nights we wake like this,
wake out of our nowhere
to kneel by small beds in darkness.
One hundred flowers open in our hands,
a name for love written in each one.
The Hundred Names of Love" by Annie Lighthart from Iron String © Airlie Press, 2015
http://writersalmanac.org/episodes/20150602/
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Evening Poetry, April 5
Evening Poetry, April 5
Guest List
by Annie Lighthart
Only once, one afternoon, almost asleep on the couch,
could I come up with the perfect guests for an
imaginary dinner party--a mix of the living and dead,
the deep and the shy artfully combined with the
swashbuckling talkers. It was such a list: everyone
would say yes, and we'd sit in pairs maybe, or close
little bunches, or maybe all together at the table
while the…
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All afternoon by the window, sunlight—
that great soft hand on my head. I could hardly
move. And the sun spoke. It said, There now.
Maybe your heart is bigger and wiser than you think.
Afternoon slowly rolled into evening.
I will listen for that voice all the days of my life.
Blessing by Annie Lighthart
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The Hundred Names of Love
The Hundred Names of Love
The Hundred Names of Love by Annie Lighthart The children have gone to bed. We are so tired we could fold ourselves neatly behind our eyes and sleep mid-word, sleep standing warm among the creatures in the barn, lean together and sleep, forgetting each other completely in the velvet, the forgiveness of that sleep. Then the one small cry: one strike of the match-head of sound: one child’s voice:…
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The Hundred Names of Love
The children have gone to bed.
We are so tired we could fold ourselves neatly
behind our eyes and sleep mid-word, sleep standing
warm among the creatures in the barn, lean together
and sleep, forgetting each other completely in the velvet,
the forgiveness of that sleep.
Then the one small cry:
one strike of the match-head of sound:
one child’s voice:
and the hundred names of love are lit
as we rise and walk down the hall.
One hundred nights we wake like this,
wake out of our nowhere
to kneel by small beds in darkness.
One hundred flowers open in our hands,
a name for love written in each one.
- Annie Lighthart
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The Writer’s Almanac, May 24, 2015
On This Date
by Annie Lighthart
On this date many things happened.
Governments were heaved into being, creeds
were repeated, maps and speeches given and believed.
There was quiet on this date. A little boy lived.
There was sleep, and one birdcall stitched all the way through.
On this date there was longing. Someone walked
through a room. One hand brushed loose crumbs into the other.
The earth received them out the side door on this date, on this day.
The Writer's Almanac
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