boryrory - a small shrub.
a small shrub.

I cry a lot.

179 posts

Nighttime Begins With A Line By Pablo Neruda

Nighttime Begins with a Line by Pablo Neruda

by Yusef Komunyakaa

So my body went on growing, by night, went on pleading & singing to the earth I was born to be woven back into: Love, let me see if I can’t sink my roots deeper into you, your minerals & water, your leaf-rot & gold, telling & un- telling of the oldest tales inscribed on wind-carved rocks, silt & grass, your song & prayers, your oaths & myths, your nights & days in one unending lament, your luminous swarm of wet kisses & stings, your spleen and mind, your outrageous forgetting & remembrance, your ghosts & rebirths, your thunder stones & mushrooms, & your kind loss of memory.

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More Posts from Boryrory

2 years ago
You, Reading This, Be Ready by William Stafford

Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?

When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life—

What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

"What can anyone give you greater than now" William Stafford

2 years ago

“On earth, the terrible things and the beautiful things continue to happen beside each other. On the moon in the darkness, nothing. On earth in the darkness, sometimes rain swells like applause.”

— Jeffrey Morgan, from “All Night No Sleep Now This” published in BOAAT (via pigmenting)

2 years ago
boryrory - a small shrub.

🍓🐹🌿

2 years ago
Orpheus In Spring - Jenny George

Orpheus in Spring - Jenny George

2 years ago
Praise the woman who took me in her arms & / wouldn’t let go of me. We sank to the floor / in the middle of the aisle in Rite Aid. / It was a late morning & I walked slowly, / furious that spring could still be so wonderful. / Magnolia tempted me to forget about my mother / for a few minutes. I stared at a Brooklyn blue sky / through branches clasping pear blossoms. / The limbs shook in sunlight. My eyes adjusted / when I went into the pharmacy & realized / everywhere I looked the world announced / it would soon be Mother’s Day. Something / ripped itself out of me. A howl so wide / I thought I would burst. The woman near the counter / understood right away the way my mother / once understood I had been born in a specific sadness. / The woman did not say she was a mother but I knew it. / She put her arms around me & waved away the cashiers, / the security guard who repeated Ma’am, Ma’am? / A stranger rocked me in her arms, so much kindness / as we fell over & crashed against a row of votive candles. / She didn’t say it would be okay. She didn’t ask me / what was wrong. But her arms put me in a vicious prayer. / I almost bit her, almost pushed her away. / We held on. We held on & praised the nameless thing / that makes us what we think we aren’t strong enough / to know. She knew. She didn’t let go of me.
Praise the woman who didn’t wipe my snot from her shirt, / my tears from her collarbone, who did not tell me to / pull myself together while everything inside me dropped. / Crushed bones. Blossoms pushing through my mouth— / a word: Mom Mom Mom. This broken birdsong of mine / with no bird, no wing, no way to fly back through time. / Praise the woman who did not leave me / like something suddenly dead on the sidewalk / with a breeze blowing over its face. / Praise the woman who smelled like fabric softener / & coffee & the good things I must believe I am too. / Praise the mothers who walk slowly through the world, / bringing children into themselves, burying children sometimes / before themselves, & who defend something harder / than innocence. Praise the guts & grace of mothers. / Praise their exhaustion & their good work. Praise their wit, / their wonderful ways of listening to the world fall / asleep against its clean pillow. For the woman / who knelt with me in an ugly heap in the middle of / Rite Aid on an unbearable spring day, / who helped me buy a Mother’s Day card / for my dead mother, who knew better than to say /I’d be just fine, for you I lift my arms each spring / & wish you a kindness so fantastic I sometimes feel / I’m in midair, the shadow of my wings clapping in joy / above your children who must love you.

Rachel Eliza Griffiths, “Good Mother”