#poem rec
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Inspired by this poem, Refuge Echo, on Ao3.
"the cave is filled with drawings
drawings in all different styles
at all different heights
as if a hundred different boys
of all different ages
had come into this cave
and scratched drawings into the wall
while waiting for the rain to stop."
#you should go read the whole thing#this poem lives in my brain rent free#poem rec#gifs are too fun#the legend of zelda#legend of zelda#loz#loz link#my art#fic rec#gif
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Stepping Out, Off the Page by cricket_toast
Rated G, 1k words, Hermitcraft/Empires Crossover poem, featuring Joe Hills/Oli TheOrionSound!
Goodness. This poem makes me feel so many things, and makes my heart ache in the best way every time I read it. It's about change and love and grief and I cannot stress how beautiful it is.
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Aro culture is the stanza “I have no heart?—Perhaps I’ve not/But then you’re mad to take offence/That I don’t give you what I have not got/Use your common sense” from the poem “No, Thank You, John” by Christina Rossetti
.
#bloodygranuaile#aro culture is#aro#aromantic#actually aro#actually aromantic#ask#mod phoenix#poetry rec#poem rec
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Hi! I have to recite 6-8 lines of poetry for my drama class, but I don’t have any ideas. I know this blog has reblogged some poetry and people have sent asks with poetry, so could you or anyone who sees this suggest some good poetry? It has to be something you can say with full commitment and passion.
Ho for sure! Once I had to do a similar thing for a class, by giving a "gift" and my gift was Wendy Cope's The Orange, since it is one of my favourites.
Others of my favourites include Victor Hugo's Melancholia, Laura Gilpin's The Two Headed Calf, Stephen Crane's In The Desert, Meggie Royer's The Morning After I Killed Myself (poems under the cut)
If you want some more I recommend you check out @poetrysmackdown @apoemaday @havingapoemwithyou
The Orange by Wendy Cope
At lunchtime I bought a huge orange -
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave -
They got quarters and I got a half.
And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It's new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I'm glad I exist.
Melancholia by Victor Hugo (extract)
Où vont tous ces enfants dont pas un seul ne rit ?
Ces doux êtres pensifs que la fièvre maigrit ?
Ces filles de huit ans qu’on voit cheminer seules ?
Ils s’en vont travailler quinze heures sous des meules ;
Ils vont, de l’aube au soir, faire éternellement
Dans la même prison le même mouvement.
Accroupis sous les dents d’une machine sombre,
Monstre hideux qui mâche on ne sait quoi dans l’ombre,
Innocents dans un bagne, anges dans un enfer,
Ils travaillent. Tout est d’airain, tout est de fer.
Jamais on ne s’arrête et jamais on ne joue.
Aussi quelle pâleur ! la cendre est sur leur joue.
Il fait à peine jour, ils sont déjà bien las.
Ils ne comprennent rien à leur destin, hélas !
Ils semblent dire à Dieu : « Petits comme nous sommes,
Notre père, voyez ce que nous font les hommes ! »
O servitude infâme imposée à l’enfant !
Rachitisme ! travail dont le souffle étouffant
Défait ce qu’a fait Dieu ; qui tue, œuvre insensée,
La beauté sur les fronts, dans les cœurs la pensée,
Et qui ferait — c’est là son fruit le plus certain ! -
D’Apollon un bossu, de Voltaire un crétin !
Travail mauvais qui prend l’âge tendre en sa serre,
Qui produit la richesse en créant la misère,
Qui se sert d’un enfant ainsi que d’un outil !
Progrès dont on demande : « Où va-t-il ? que veut-il ? »
Qui brise la jeunesse en fleur ! qui donne, en somme,
Une âme à la machine et la retire à l’homme !
Que ce travail, haï des mères, soit maudit !
Maudit comme le vice où l’on s’abâtardit,
Maudit comme l’opprobre et comme le blasphème !
O Dieu ! qu’il soit maudit au nom du travail même,
Au nom du vrai travail, sain, fécond, généreux,
Qui fait le peuple libre et qui rend l’homme heureux !
English translation by Geoffrey Barto
[Where do these children go for whom nobody laughs?
These sweet, pensive beings wasted away by fever?
These eight-year-old girls you see walking alone?
They go to work — fifteen hours in the mill;
They go from dawn to dusk, eternally repeating
The same motions in the same prison.
Stooped beneath the teeth of a somber machine,
A hideous monster that chews who-knows-what in the shadows,
Innocents on the chain gang, angels in some hell,
They work. Everything is bronze, all is iron.
Never do they stop and never do they play.
And what paleness! Ash upon their cheeks.
Barely it is dawn, already they are tired.
They understand nothing of their fate, alas!
They seem to say to God: “Little as we are,
Our Father, look what the men do to us!”
O infamous servitude imposed upon the child!
Stunting! work whose stifling breath
Undoes what God has made; that kills, senseless work,
The beauty of their faces, the thought in their heads,
And which would make — here’s its most certain fruit! -
A hunchback of Apollo, a cretin of Voltaire!
Evil work that takes tender youth in its grasp,
That produces wealth by creating misery,
That uses a child like one more tool!
Progress of which we ask: “Where are you going? What do you want?”
That breaks youth in bloom! that gives, in sum,
A soul to a machine and yanks it from a man!
That this work, hated by mothers, be cursed!
Cursed as a degenerative vice!
Cursed as damnable, cursed as blasphemy!
O God! be it cursed even in the name of work,
In the name of true work, healthy, fecund, generous,
That makes the people free and makes man happy!]
The Two-headed Calf by Laura Gilpin
Tomorrow when the farm boys find this
freak of nature, they will wrap his body
in newspaper and carry him to the museum.
But tonight he is alive and in the north
field with his mother. It is a perfect
summer evening: the moon rising over
the orchard, the wind in the grass. And
as he stares into the sky, there are
twice as many stars as usual.
In The Desert by Stephen Crane
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;
“But I like it
“Because it is bitter,
“And because it is my heart.”
The Morning After I Killed Myself by Meggie Royer
The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.
I made myself breakfast in bed.
I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich.
I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass.
I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter.
I washed the dishes and folded the towels.
The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love.
Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal.
Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag.
I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat.
I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current.
With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.
The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog.
I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat.
I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place.
I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.
The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading.
I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death.
I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.
The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.
The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her.
I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents.
I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.
The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.
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poems I loved in december
Paruyr Sevak, "To Go Mad"
Anne Sexton, "December 18th"
Ted Hughes, "Lovesong"
Chris Abani, "Ritual is Journey"
Franz Wright, "Untitled"
Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, "A Prayer"
Willie Perdomo, "Maybe Under Some Other Sky"
Osip Mandelstam,'You took away all the oceans and all the room', (translated by Clarence Brown and W. S. Merwin)
Osip Mandelstam, "Tenderer than tender" transl. D. Smirnov-Sadovsky
Richard Siken, "Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out"
Michael Miller, "December"
Vladimir Mayakovsky, "A Cloud in Trousers"
Mohja Kahf, “Most Wanted”
Louise Glück, "Winter Recipes from the Collective"
Vladimir Mayakovsky, "Listen"
Fear, Czesław Miłosz, Robert Hass (translator)
Hope, Czesław Miłosz, Robert Hass (translator)
Charles Bukowski, "a vote for the gentle light"
Marina Tsvetaeva, "I Opened My Veins" (translated by Elaine Feinstein)
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i need poem recommendations!! currently looking for a verrry specific type of poem to use in a cross-literary analysis so if anyone knows any poems that are about how everyone dies (& the arbitrary titles we assign to ourselves in our lives do not matter that much) but that does not mean there is not still point in the world or in living
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Easy access tag for future me :) as a treat
#movie rec#show rec#sewing#sewing patterns#web series#book rec#youtube rec#feel good#essay#literature rec#poem#info#article#art#reference#web weaving#photography#words rec#miso soup#poem rec
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hello! im sorry if this has been asked before but what are your favourite novels/poems - or just any that have moved you recently?
i hope you have a lovely rest of your day!
I'm not reading much anymore, but a small handful 🤍
"Waiting" by Hua Xi
"I Sleep a Lot" by Czeslaw Milosz
"A Woman Unborn" by Ana Swir
"Mimesis" by Fady Joudah
"What the Fingers Do", J. Estanislao Lopez
"The Airplane" by Dunya Mikhail
"Fized Shadow, Moving Water" by Carl Phillips
"My Defeated Banner", Najwan Darwish
"I Remember You Best as the Man" by Robert Wood Lynn
"The Roses of Saadi" by Marceline Desbordes-Valmore
"No Title Required" by Wislawa Szymborska
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#Of quiet birds in circling flight#jason todd#pit withdrawal#chronic illness#not a fic rec poem by clare harner#what trace will be left when we are gone
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can you recommend some good poems about icarus?
lucas jorgensen non-cento from the bureau of the library of alexandria
gottfried benn icarus
jack gilbert refusing heaven: poems: "failing and flying"
marcia carlson a masque for icarus
larry eigner three poems: "the feet of icarus..."
kofi
#tbr list#tbr#asks#anonymous#anon#poetry recs#poetry rec#poetry#poem#poems#poet#poets#lucas jorgensen#non-cento from the bureau of the library of alexandria#icarus#on icarus#gottfried benn#jack gilbert#refusing heaven#refusing heaven: poems#failing and flying#marcia carlson#a masque for icarus#larry eigner#three poems#the feet of icarus
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Fall Poetry Recommendations 🍁
To Autumn by John Keats
My November Guest by Robert Frost
Fall, leaves, fall by Emily Brontë
Autumn by John Clare
End of Summer by Stanley Kunitz
Sonnet 73 by William Shakespeare
Sunset to Star Rise by Christina Rossetti
First Fall by Maggie Smith
Ode to the West Wind by P.B. Shelley
Autumn Song by W.H. Auden
Tell me not here by A.E. Houseman
The Wild Swans at Coole William Butler Yeats
Japanese Maple by Clive James
The Beautiful Changes by Richard Wilbur
Among the Rocks by Robert Browning
Nothing Gold Can Stay by Robert Frost
Beyond the Red River by Thomas McGrath
September Midnight by Sara Teasdale
Autumn Fires by Robert Louis Stevenson
A Reminiscence by Richard O. Moore
It's September by Edgar Albert Guest
#poetry#poetry recs#autumn#literature#dark academia#spilled ink#fall#october#light academia#poems#art#asthetiques#romantic academia#escapism#autumncore
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So, does anyone want to help me achieve my dream of going to Norway by purchasing my book? Ebook coming soon!
EDIT: I was officially nominated for a semester abroad, so I definitely need some funds, lol. (Plus, nifty book cover!)
#books#bookblr#food#lit#literature#writeblr#writers of tumblr#poetry#poem#traveling#travelblr#fundraising#study abroad#tumblr book club#bookrec#book recs#book rec#foodie#book blog#bibliophile#book review
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the artist’s way, week one
a book for the people that are “creative in spasms. creative as an act of will and ego. creative, yes, but in spurts like blood forma a severed artery”
the basics: 1. write three morning pages everyday (stream of consciousness, to free your brain space and be able to focus on what you care most), 2. take yourself out in an artist date every weekend (to reward and inspire you)
pay attention to the changes in yourself and the synchronicities, note the negative feelings that rise up; non-attachment to the result of your art, rather learn to live in the process
reminder: we need to stop demanding that we look good, it is impossible to get better and look good at the same time
#alicewritten#alice notes#spilled journal#journaling#commonplace book#noteblr#bookblr#currently reading#spilled ink#book quotes#poems and quotes#book rec#bookish#note taking#book annotations#annotating books
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💌 poems for the month of love 💌
Having a Coke with You by Frank O’Hara
The Quiet World by Jeffrey McDaniel
Wait For Me by Konstantin Simonov (tr. by Mike Munford)
A Kiss on the Forehead by Marina Tsvetaeva
Love by Joseph Brodsky
Your Unripe Love by Paruyr Sevak (from “Anthology of Armenian poetry")
Love poem by Tishani Doshi
Maybe Under Some Other Sky by Willie Perdomo
Warming Her Pearls by Carol Ann Duffy
Ich finde dich (I find you) by Rainer Maria Rilke
Where does such tenderness come from? by Marina Tsvetaeva
I Loved You by Alexander Pushkin
Like a Small Café, That’s Love by Mahmoud Darwish (translated by Mohammad Shaheen)
Our Story by William Stafford
The Kiss by Sara Teasdale
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the parasite
red mother, laurel radzieski / the thick of it (2005-2012) / the beggar, swans / the parasite, swans / ladybug found in transverse colon during colonoscopy / some guy on twitter in 2011 / wiktionary page for stoma / the thick of it 2x01 commentary / some article / peachy, missy higgins / various images of ophiocordyceps, cordyceps, and other insects
#hello ive been working on this unconstitutionally long post for like a month. sorry its so fucking cluttered. there is still more i could#add in but i am cutting it off here. max recced me 'red mother' its a poem from the perspective of a parasite and everyone should read it#this post kind of portrays both malcolm and ollie as parasites of each other - malcolm as the overbearing ophiocordyceps controlling ollie'#every move and ollie as the tapeworm or some shit small and sapping away malcolm's strength until he kills him#really they are both hosts to the same parasite. which is of couse working for the british government#anyway my favourite parts of this are the mouth/anus bit (starts losing my mind) and no yeah actually idk all of it#the thick of it#shut up ulrike#my webweaves#webweave#malcolm tucker#ollie reeder#sorry for this objectively fucking insane post. i will never change#long post
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I am also memorizing a poem a month this year! ^__^ My January poem is One Art by Elizabeth Bishop... good luck to you! ♡
this is such a pretty poem. what a way to start off the year
#i feel like u have an impeccable taste in poems. would love more recs from u#good luck to you too babe x#ask
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