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.

Last Picnic

12th August 11

by Charles Simic

Before the fall rains come,
Let’s have one more picnic,
Now that the leaves are turning color
And the grass is still green in places.

Bread, cheese and some black grapes
Ought to be enough,
And a bottle of red wine to toast the crows
Puzzled to find us sitting here.

If it gets cold—and it will—I’ll hold you close.
Night will come early.
We’ll watch the sky, hoping for a full moon
To light our way home.

And if there isn’t one, we’ll put all our trust 
In your book of matches
And my sense of direction
As we grope our way in the dark.

Ditty of First Desire

21st July 11

by Federico García Lorca

  In the green morning
I wanted to be a heart.
A heart.

  And in the ripe evening
I wanted to be a nightingale.
A nightingale.

turn orange-colored.
turn the color of love.)

  In the vivid morning
I wanted to be myself.
A heart.

  And at the evening’s end
I wanted to be my voice.
A nightingale.

turn orange-colored.
turn the color of love.

From Selected VerseSongs, 1921-1924 
translated by Alan S. Trueblood

(Source: heliophobus)

(once like a spark)

14th July 11

by e. e. cummings

(once like a spark)

if strangers meet
life begins—
not poor not rich
(only aware)
kind neither
nor cruel
(only complete)
i not not you
not possible;
only truthful
if strangers(who
deep our most are

(and so to dark)

(Source: heliophobus)

A Girl

12th July 11

by Ezra Pound

The tree has entered my hands, 
the sap has ascended my arms, 
the tree has grown in my breast - downward, 
the branches grow out of me, like arms. 

Tree you are, moss you are, 
you are violets with wind above them. 
A child - so high - you are, 
and all this is folly to the world. 

(Source: heliophobus)

Visible World, Richard Siken

8th July 11


Sunlight pouring across your skin, your shadow
flat on the wall.
The dawn was breaking the bones of your heart like twigs.
You had not expected this,
the bedroom gone white, the astronomical light
pummeling you in a stream of fists.
You raised your hand to your face as if
to hide it, the pink fingers gone gold as the light
streamed straight to the bone,
as if you were the small room closed in glass
with every speck of dust illuminated.
The light is no mystery,
the mystery is that there is something to keep the light
from passing through.

(via diamondnight-deactivated2012011)