Poetry Rb - Tumblr Posts - Page 3
on fathers
ocean vuong someday i’ll love \ kaye donachie against the mass of night \ nailone marta sketch \ agustin gómez-arcos the carnivorous lamb \ henrik uldalen \ richard siken war of the foxes (ii) \ @heavensghost \ barbara kroll \ @d0ll-part-s crossing the line \ eula bliss the pain scale \ david shelvino
my life as a dog (1985) dir. lasse hallström / laika in 1957 / laika, wil wagner / laika in 1957 / first dog in space, brennig davies
ada limón, “sway” / henry moret, le faucheur / vincent van gogh, the sower / yanyi, “blessings” / mónica andino, the planting & the harvest / ada limón, “trying”
Jean-Paul Sartre, from No Exit: And Three Other Plays; “No Exit”
Text ID: If I've got to suffer, it may as well be at your hands, your pretty hands.
Resenting the male gaze but also being obsessed with how you’re perceived by others
Margaret Atwood /// Susan Sontag /// Real Men - Mitski /// Shame is an Ocean I Swim Across - Mary Lambert /// Birds of Prey (2020) /// post by jitterati /// Liquid Smooth - Mitski /// Jennifer’s Body (2009) /// Bravado - Lorde /// Diagnosis - Cynthia Cruz
1. Word of Honor/山河令 // 2. Suzanne Rivecca // 3. Leila Chatti, Faulty // 4. Natalie Wee, Least of All // 5. The Untamed/陈情令 // 6. Ross Gay, Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude // 7. Maria Petrovykh, Love me. I am pitch black, // 8. Richard Siken // 9. Raymond Carver, Late Fragment // 10. Word of Honor/山河令
i. something about girls shines into my eyes too brightly. at seven, i catch myself thinking - let's figure that out later.
ii. at seventeen, we are both trying on clothing. i've known her since she was 11. her boyfriend will storm up to the changing room. not with her - she's a fucking lesbian.
iii. at 21, i lie on the floor of my boyfriend's room, watching the ceiling spin. i've cleaned his place on my hands and knees and the whole room smells of bleach. i'm drunk on fireball, which feels dangerous and silly. i can tell i'm being immature. being with him feels lonely. i tell him, without thinking - she kissed me. he will laugh into the pillow. who cares? girls don't count. it's kind of hot. show me a picture.
iv. i change schools twice. i change careers every thursday. i change in and out of feeling alive. i think i have some kind of curse - each switch i make sends me back to being seven, and unsure. brings me back to arguing with my father. brings me back to but i think i love her. i love change but i hate setting things in motion. i hate being the new kid. i hate stuttering - well, i'm, uh, i'm into uh
v. we sit and watch the bird coast overhead and talk about art and kiss on the roof of a garden. i'm 27, and the gasoline tank is running low. i pick up a feather for her. i feel like i am still unweaving half the things i thought i'd already know. it feels less and less like i am unpacking. more and more like - finding new places to grow.
vi. something about her shines into my hands and spills out over my lap. like gold satin. like shower of sparks. like everglow. i call my father. i tell him - oh, by the way. i'm bringing her home.
// r.i.d // nosebleed prompt 3.20
maybe i'm just a portrait of all the people i've loved and nothing else tastes so bittersweet. a little dash of my ex-best friend in the way i walk and laugh. my scarf tied in a double knot for that beautiful stranger at the bus stop. a whisper of my mother and the sigh of a lover in the way i braid my hair. pockets full of fire and infinite regret like my dad or his dad or his dad. the tilt of my jaw, the curve of my smile, everything, everything is someone else. when they're all gone, my own reflection will be the biggest ghost i have.
““Dear 1037148,” wrote one admirer to a golden elm in May. “You deserve to be known by more than a number. I love you. Always and forever.””
—
Email-a-Tree Service Doesn’t Go As Planned in the Best Possible Way - The Atlantic
Melbourne gave their trees ID numbers and email addresses so residents could report downed branches or other problems. Instead, people starting writing their trees love letters.
Sometimes, the trees even write back:
To: Green Leaf Elm, Tree ID 1022165 29 May 2015 Dear Green Leaf Elm, I hope you like living at St. Mary’s. Most of the time I like it too. I have exams coming up and I should be busy studying. You do not have exams because you are a tree. I don’t think that there is much more to talk about as we don’t have a lot in common, you being a tree and such. But I’m glad we’re in this together. Cheers, F”
29 May 2015 Hello F, I do like living here. I hope you do well in your exams. Research has shown that nature can influence the way people learn in a positive way, so I hope I inspire your learning. Best wishes, Green Leaf Elm, Tree ID 1022165
I am so completely charmed by this.
(via chels)
“I did not know what to do with myself. Outside the rain was falling. I had been tempted, once, while wearing my mother’s red dress, to walk out in the rain. I had never done it before. And the storm came on so quick – the thunder was an aftershock in my ears. I had been blinded – all I could hear was the rain, and how everything rushed down the roads in a feral river.”
— Yiwei Chai, The Jacaranda Years
“What else can you call privilege? Being able to dream of fighting and martyrdom. I wanted fighting and martyrdom. Maybe not violence, maybe not violent death - but I wanted to fight for or against something. I wanted it so badly I thought I would die if I couldn’t have it. You felt nothing in the suburbs though. The streets, the houses. Even the sky was the same, day in day out, an overwhelming blue that would swallow your life whole - and then what? I should not have been unhappy, but I was. I was so unhappy it frightened me.”
— Yiwei Chai, The Jacaranda Years
“I could not stop wasting time. It was crazy. I wanted to do something with my life, but instead I went to sleep, or sung in the shower, or sat and stared at the wall. I couldn’t even tell you about anything that I saw. I didn’t talk to anybody. The cicadas kept dying outside, and as I dreamed, my mouth grew thick and venomous with silence.”
— Yiwei Chai, The Jacaranda Years
I met you and now I am kind to myself in my sleep
and how do you explain that?
— Laura Marris, from “Tell Me Gently,” published in The Shallow Ends
"you didn't know me when i was 13." "i really wish i did."
speedy ortiz / yohji yamamato / walk the moon / justine kurland / eloise klein healy / isao yukisada / phoebe bridgers / wren @peoplehood
i’m watching this documentary about halloween and there’s a part where they’re explaining that ghost stories got really popular around the civil war when no one could really deal with how many people went off and died and
the narrator just said
“the first ghost stories were really about coming home”
fuck
One day you will eat tomatoes like she taught you and you will teach this to someone else you will learn to love, juice dribbling down your chins. You will take the salt in your hand and shake it onto the fruit’s raw wound. Like this, you’ll say, raising the globe to your lips. Like this.
Leila Chatti, "What Will Happen"
the unabridged journals of sylvia plath, sylvia plath // little father, li-young lee // dostoevsky and parricide, sigmund freud // forest, crystal vega-huerta // the pulling, sharon olds // salt water, peter campion // learning late letters, quyên nguyễn-hoàng // the woods, daughter // the cubist painters, guillaume apollinaire // deathwatch, michael ryan.
growing apart (maybe in another life)
“p.s. i still love you” jenny han // hanif kureishi “intimacy and midnight all day: a novel and stories” // andrew wyeth “breakup”, 1994 // kevin wilson “nothing to see here” // sue zhao // christa wolf “cassandra: a novel and four essays” // zhiyong jing “the longing in your heart”, 2019 // frank ocean “white ferrari” // @wickleg