The art of poetry.

"Poetry is language at its most distilled and most powerful."
- Rita Dove, 1952 - present.

A collection of poesies for the poetic souls.

There will be no new posts; this tumblelog is is now an archive.
3rd September 11

(Source: poetryfoundation.org, via tamerah)

September Song

1st September 11

by Geoffrey Hill

Undesirable you may have been, untouchable
you were not. Not forgotten
or passed over at the proper time.

As estimated, you died. Things marched,
sufficient, to that end.
Just so much Zyklon and leather, patented
terror, so many routine cries.

(I have made
an elegy for myself it
is true)

September fattens on vines. Roses
flake from the wall. The smoke
of harmless fires drifts to my eyes.

This is plenty. This is more than enough. 

(Source: heliophobus)

To Have Without Holding

24th August 11

by Marge Piercy 

Learning to love differently is hard,
love with the hands wide open, love
with the doors banging on their hinges,
the cupboard unlocked, the wind 
roaring and whimpering in the rooms
rustling the sheets and snapping the blinds
that thwack like rubber bands
in an open palm.

It hurts to love wide open
stretching the muscles that feel
as if they are made of wet plaster,
then of blunt knives, then
of sharp knives.

It hurts to thwart the reflexes
of grab, of clutch; to love and let
go again and again. It pesters to remember
the lover who is not in the bed,
to hold back what is owed to the work
that gutters like a candle in a cave
without air, to love consciously, 
conscientiously, concretely, constructively.

I can’t do it, you say it’s killing
me, but you thrive, you glow
on the street like a neon raspberry,
You float and sail, a helium balloon
bright bachelor’s button blue and bobbing
on the cold and hot winds of our breath,
as we make and unmake in passionate
diastole and systole the rhythm
of our unbound bonding, to have
and not to hold, to love
with minimized malice, hunger
and anger moment by moment balanced.

(Source: heliophobus)

The Primer

15th August 11

by Christina Davis

She said, I love you.

He said, Nothing. 


(As if there were just one 
of each word and the one 
who used it, used it up). 


In the history of language
the first obscenity was silence.

Daguerreotype Taken in Old Age

14th August 11

by Margaret Atwood

I know I change
have changed

but whose is this vapid face
pitted and vast, rotund
suspended in empty paper
as though in a telescope

the granular moon

I rise from my chair
pulling against gravity
I turn away
and go out into the garden

I revolve among the vegetables,
my head ponderous
reflecting the sun
in shadows from the pocked ravines
cut in my cheeks, my eye-
sockets 2 craters

among the paths
I orbit
the apple trees
white white spinning
stars around me

I am being
eaten away by light

(Source: heliophobus)