This is me. This is all. Isn’t much. I am heart and breath and skin and bleed.

Jeanann Verlee, from “Bridge Song” in “Used Furniture” (4/1/2013) (via Read a Little Poetry)

Communion by Jeananne Verlee I know a boy who called his girlfriend’s body a “crime scene.” Dad, my body is a crime scene. My body is lint and gasoline and matchstick. My body is a brush fire. It’s ticking, Dad, a slow alarm. I have rain boots. Lots of them. It isn’t raining anymore. The words are coming back, Dad. The way they fit and jump in the mouth. I want ice cream and long letters. I want to read long love letters but I don’t think he loves me. I think I’m used up. I think I’m the grit under his nails, the girl who looks good in pictures. I don’t think he loves me. I think they broke me, Dad. I think I drink too much and it’s because they broke me. I heard about two girls recently, two women crushed like cherries in a boy’s jaw. It opened me, Dad. My body is melted wax, it is ripe and stink and bent. It is a mistake. I walk like an apology. I don’t hate men, Dad, I don’t. I want a washing machine. I want someone else to do the dishes, someone to walk the dog. I have a hornet in my head, Dad. A hornet. She’s an angry bitch — she hurls herself against my skull. She stings. And stings. I know I don’t make sense, Dad. This is the problem. I’m a sick girl, a crazy wishbone. I have razors under my tongue. I’m sorry I cut you, Dad, I’m so—so sorry. I gave you a card for Father’s Day once, it said you were my hero. You are. Your laugh is a thunderclap, you love like surgery. I think they broke me, Dad. I can’t erase their faces. I want to swim, Dad. Remember when I used to hopscotch? I used to make you laugh. My feet are hot. The bottoms of my feet are scorched sand, August asphalt. My body is a slug, a mob of sticky wet rot. No one touches me anymore because I’m rot. Because my body is a spill no one wants to clean up. They cracked me open, Dad, I know you don’t want to hear about it. You don’t want to hear how they scissored me, how they gnawed me like raw meat. No one wants to hear how they made me drink lemon juice, how they kicked the dog, how they upturned the furniture, no one wants to hear how my skin turned to a dark thick of purple and black and lead. I watch the homeless a lot, Dad. I watched a man with a cup of coins and chips of skin carved out of his face. He had freckles. He needs medicine, Dad. He needs to stop the hornet. My body is a hive. I am red ants and jellyfish. A yellow sickness. My body is a used condom in an alley in Jersey City. I don’t think he loves me, Dad. My body is a fetus in biohazard tank. A Polaroid pinned to a corkboard in Brooklyn. I think I’m hurt, Dad. I think I was the tough girl for too long. My body is a wafer, a thin, soft melt on a choir boy’s tongue.

— Jeanann Verlee, “Genetics of Regret” from Said the Manic to the Muse

"...signifying nothing..."

I built you from the purest napalm, fed you wine and bourbon. Preened you in the dark, hammered lullabies into your thin skull. I painted over the walls, wrote the poems. I shook your goddamn boots. Now you want out? Think you’ll wrestle me out of you with prescriptions? A good man’s good love and some breathing exercises?

— The Mania Speaks, Jeanann Verlee

while he killed my friends / reva sevander

sophocles, elektra / dorothy allison, to the bone / jeanann verlee, the mania speaks / rainer maria rilke, rilke’s book of hours / @/sweatermuppet journal entry (april 20th 2022) / kate kayley, lent / franz wright, god's silence / elektra

Maybe this is kind of a silly question but how do you get into reading poetry? Or I guess more, what does reading poetry look like for you? Your process? I've primarily only read novels and I feel as though the way to go about reading poetry is very different. I've been struggling to get into reading poetry books.

i think my advice for true beginners is to annotate poems by what they like, what they dislike, & what confuses them. these things can overlap. then ask yourself why do you (dis)like that certain line or verse? what caught your eye? you can explain it in very very simple terms in your own annotations, especially if you're not familiar with most poetic devices. it can be as basic as you relating to what's being done, you like the sound of the quote when spoken aloud, etc

id also suggest looking for repeating terms, characters, locations, symbols. does this poet feature birds a lot in their work? what do you think the birds represent? does that meaning stay the same throughout their work, or does it change? why does that symbol make the most sense—in what way would the poem(s) change if the symbol was removed or substituted?

the more you do these things—writing about & on poems, discussing them, questioning them, the more you'll be able to discern what tools were used & why they were impactful. my first adventures into poetry were unclear, i read a lot of poems i did not understand, both in what they were trying to convey & why they captivated me. it's okay to like something simply for the sake of liking it, but over time, as you become familiar with terms, techniques, & form, you'll come to find there's a reason (or multiple) on why poems, poets, & themes stick out to u

i would recommend frank ohara, richard siken, maya angelou, rod mckuen, anders carlson-wee, aracelis girmay, & jeanann verlee as poets that are good for beginners—not too difficult to understand, while still utilizing many wonderful forms + devices, & writing on topics that are relevant yet specific enough to feel unique to themselves

“poetry doesn’t really speak to me” ok, then try reading:

"Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath

“The Years” by Alex Dimitrov

“Fuck Your Lecture on Craft, My People Are Dying” by Noor Hindi

“What the Living Do” by Marie Howe (dedicated to her younger brother John, who died from AIDS-related complications)

“Love after love“ by Derek Walcott 

“Crude Conversations with Boys Who Fake Laughter Often” by Warsan Shire

“Ginsberg” by Julia Vinograd

“Unsolicited Advice to Adolescent Girls with Crooked Teeth and Pink Hair” by Jeanann Verlee

“Fossilizing Trauma” by Blythe Baird

― Jeanann Verlee, Lessons on Loving a Prophet (x)

(image description underneath the cut)

[ID: 12 gifs of kim dong-won as hwang sung-rok and woo do-hwan as nam seon-ho in “my country: the new age”. the first and last gifs are in full color, edited to emphasize the teals while the rest is in black & white. gif 1: sung-rok is on his knees in front of seon-ho, falling forward after getting stabbed. seon-ho reaches out, but only manages to graze the fur lining with his fingertips, unable to grasp either sung-rok, or what is happening. the text says: “one; you know how this ends. there's nothing you can do to change it, so make peace with it now. ready your hands for the callus, shred the cloth for bandages, prepare the rosaries.” gif 2: their first meeting; when seon-ho tries to take general yi’s bow, sung-rok tells him to kneel, which he does. the text says: “two; when you meet him, outside the grocery, along the boardwalk, beneath the overpass, you will not know what he is. he will be neither too charming, nor too handsome. not thunder, not polish.” gif 3: in the burning apothecary, seon-ho takes a step forward towards a crestfallen sung-rok. the text says: “three; the day you fall in love, his mouth will spill your name. he will repeat. and repeat. he will not touch you. he will watch your hips. study whatever ample you have. will ask to watch you dance. when you turn to leave, he will use your name like a choke chain.” gif 4: sung-rok is looking back at the burning apothecary in quiet awe as seon-ho walks out, his silhouette wreathed in flames. the text says: “four; he will call you miracle. your face will unravel. this is his magic. when he begs you promise, say yes.” gif 5: sung-rok tells seon-ho to stop whining and presses a hand to his stomach wound; seon-ho’s fingers are curled tightly around his forearm. the text says: “five; when he offers his lips, take them. take his arms, his throat, take his toes. when he offers, gorge. swallow everything whole. gag. vomit. swallow more. do not hesitate. no time for polite or coy. take.” gif 6: the scene where sung-rok corners hwi, but his friends show up to fight sung-rok off and jeong beom calls him a yain; a barbarian. the text says: “six; when the minions call you whore, nod.” gif 7: sung-rok takes an angry step towards seon-ho who only looks up at him slowly from where he sits at the table, nonchalant. the text says: “seven; he will tell you of the others. how they went crazy in their sleep, awaiting his return. do not flinch. do not doubt your thickened fingertips. stand upright. you promised.” gif 8: seon-ho howls and cries in yeon’s room. the text says: “eight; when you find him in his room, thrashing the sheets, pressing his palms into the walls, howling, his face, a river—close the door. this is how he makes wine. leave him to his sorcery.” gif 9: seon-ho rips his arm out of sung-rok’s grip, leaving him behind to go and save hwi. the text says: “nine; when he explains how he cannot love you, that he will never be yours alone, when he tells how the meek and the gluttons, the tempted, the proud are his angels—do not mourn. smile. feed him. wash his hair.” gif 10: we see seon-ho from behind, kneeling on the ground after getting stabbed multiple times. the text says: “ten; he is a king among thieves. the leeches will hollow his skin, the crows, reduce him to bones. his own heart will empty him. allow for the bleed. be ready with tourniquet and prayer.” gif 11: sung-rok tells seon-ho he’ll get killed in his sleep if he keeps drinking like that, but seon-ho only smiles softly and gazes up at him, quipping back that he’ll have sung-rok to protect him. the text says: “eleven; in the dry burn of dawn, after the last of the lashes, the thorns and the spittle, when his limp body is laid at your feet, remember the night he loved you. the ember of his eyes and the way the words came like honey. gif 12: seon-ho looks off to the jurchens whose loyalty he just won while sung-rok looks at seon-ho, eyes shining with quiet, fierce pride. the text says: “twelve; you were made for this.” /end ID]

I opened my shirt. My chest. Opened doors and cabinets, windows. Opened skin, opened thighs. I’ve said it honest as I know how.

Jeanann Verlee, from “Bridge Song” in “Used Furniture” (4/1/2013) (via Read a Little Poetry)

hello, lately ive been trying to write poetry and its been... i wouldnt necessarily say bad but not great either, if you have some tips i would appreciate it and also if you could check out one poem i wrote which is on my page and tell me how i can improve it would mean a lot to me. if you cant no worries.

I am happy to give you some advice! The first thing is, honestly, to keep writing. The more you write, the more you learn. (I started writing poetry several decades ago. At first, I was terrible at it. But the more I wrote, the better I got.)

The second thing is, read more poetry. Find some that speaks to you. Contemporary poets I'd recommend are Jeanann Verlee and Marty McConnell. You can Google them, and they both have videos up on YouTube. e.e cummings and Sylvia Plath are two additional favorites of mine. Those are long-dead humans, though.

The third thing is, good doesn't matter in the way that you think it does. An effective poem is one that makes someone feel something. If you have made someone feel something, then you've done well. (Sometimes, this is just for yourself. It is okay to write poetry just for you.)

The fourth thing is, play. Sometimes, this means playing with form (the visual layout of a poem can help create tension), word choice (alliteration may be useful, and certain words are more evocative than others), or emphasis ("what happens if I italicize this word?"). Line breaks, enjambment (poetry is read not to the end of a line, but to points of punctuation), and imagery are a joy to test out.

Lastly, have fun. Seriously. Write because you want to express yourself or some idea. Write because it helps you in some way. And that may help other people. Keep writing!

Letter to My Blackout

Helen Considers Leaving Troy

The Prestige

Mountain Dew Commercial Disguised as a Love Poem

I'm Going Back to Minnesota Where Sadness Makes Sense

Holocene Sonnet

these, our bodies, possessed by light.

“My love, take these walls, these wars. Dull my blades. I am tired of the hunt.” Jeanann Verlee, “Your Mouth Is A Church, I Forgot How To Pray”. - In the Halls of Mandos, Nienna comes to Maedhros.

—

these halls may be silent, my love, and the sound of your echoing voice but a mockery of what once was.

(but my love, do you remember? my love, can you forget?)

red blood white sand red sea red sand. red banners, snapping in the wind. the gleam of stars on steel. look, my love, do you remember? look at their faces— yes, look at them! my love, look at what you’ve done.

read it here on ao3!

BOX G (BOOKS, KITCHEN)

BLESS THE DAUGHTERS WHO RAISED THEMSELVES BY WARSAN SHIRE

BLUE FLOWER MUG

BOX GRATER

DRAGONFLY MUG

DRAWING UTENSILS

GINGERBREAD BY HELEN OYEYEMI

HOW WE WORK BY DAVID MACAULAY

JUNKYARD GHOST REVIVAL BY WRITE BLOODY PRESS

MATILDA BY ROALD DAHL

NEW AMERICAN BEST FRIEND BY OLIVIA GATWOOD

NIGHT SKY WITH EXIT WOUNDS BY OCEAN VUONG

PINK ELEPHANT BY RACHEL MCKIBBENS

PLATTER

SAID THE MANIC TO THE MUSE BY JEANANN VERLEE

SPLIT BY CATHY LINH CHE

TIGER TIGER BY MARGAUX FRAGOSO