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Post by RAVENEYE on Apr 26, 2022 9:39:20 GMT -6
This poem popped up in my Reddit feed, and I thought it was especially beautiful.
The Problem with Travel by Ada Limón
Every time I'm in an airport, I think I should drastically change my life: Kill the kid stuff, start to act my numbers, set fire to the clutter and creep below the radar like an escaped canine sneaking along the fence line. I'd be cable-knitted to the hilt, beautiful beyond buying, believe in the maker and fix my problems with prayer and property. Then, I think of you, home with the dog, the field full of purple pop-ups - we're small and flawed, but I want to be who I am, going where I'm going, all over again. From Bright Dead Things (2015)
I love this poem! Good find, Whale. |
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Post by alliecartman248 on Sept 16, 2022 18:22:44 GMT -6
Right now, I'm really into Sparrow by James Henry Knippen
Like a rope through a clew
the hour moved
but was encompassed
and tugged on
by a sail that was no sail.
And through that hour
the sparrow flew
surrounded by blue air
a bright seed filled
with breath and marrow.
And through that sparrow
like a storm
the blood spun faster
than the planet
she carried
in her womb. And the sail
that was no sail blew
and the sparrow knew
that the hour grew
inside her.
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Post by havekrillwhaletravel on Sept 27, 2022 7:05:18 GMT -6
Right now, I'm really into Sparrow by James Henry Knippen Like a rope through a clew the hour moved but was encompassed and tugged on by a sail that was no sail. And through that hour the sparrow flew surrounded by blue air a bright seed filled with breath and marrow. And through that sparrow like a storm the blood spun faster than the planet she carried in her womb. And the sail that was no sail blew and the sparrow knew that the hour grew inside her. This is great! "the blood spun faster / than the planet / she carried / in her womb" is SO good.
This poem popped up in my Reddit feed and really clicked with me:
Song by Adrienne Rich
You're wondering if I'm lonely:
OK then, yes, I'm lonely
as a plane rides lonely and level
on its radio beam, aiming
across the Rockies
for the blue-strung aisles
of an airfield on the ocean.
You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in, lonely
If I'm lonely
it must be the loneliness
of waking first, of breathing
dawn's first cold breath on the city
of being the one awake
in a house wrapped in sleep
If I'm lonely
it's with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore
in the last red light of the year
that knows what it is, that knows it's neither
ice nor mud nor winter light
but wood, with a gift for burning.
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Post by alliecartman248 on Sept 27, 2022 11:32:48 GMT -6
Right now, I'm really into Sparrow by James Henry Knippen Like a rope through a clew the hour moved but was encompassed and tugged on by a sail that was no sail. And through that hour the sparrow flew surrounded by blue air a bright seed filled with breath and marrow. And through that sparrow like a storm the blood spun faster than the planet she carried in her womb. And the sail that was no sail blew and the sparrow knew that the hour grew inside her. This is great! "the blood spun faster / than the planet / she carried / in her womb" is SO good.
This poem popped up in my Reddit feed and really clicked with me:
Song by Adrienne Rich
You're wondering if I'm lonely:
OK then, yes, I'm lonely
as a plane rides lonely and level
on its radio beam, aiming
across the Rockies
for the blue-strung aisles
of an airfield on the ocean.
You want to ask, am I lonely?
Well, of course, lonely
as a woman driving across country
day after day, leaving behind
mile after mile
little towns she might have stopped
and lived and died in, lonely
If I'm lonely
it must be the loneliness
of waking first, of breathing
dawn's first cold breath on the city
of being the one awake
in a house wrapped in sleep
If I'm lonely
it's with the rowboat ice-fast on the shore
in the last red light of the year
that knows what it is, that knows it's neither
ice nor mud nor winter light
but wood, with a gift for burning.
Oooh, that is really beautiful! |
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Post by havekrillwhaletravel on Oct 8, 2022 2:14:19 GMT -6
Not sure if this fits but I love this prose poem from Claire-Louise Bennett's short story collection Pond ... or at least I feel it's a prose poem. What is a prose poem anyway and who decides what gets to be a prose poem? 
Oh, Tomato Puree! by Claire-Louise Bennett
Oh, Tomato Puree! When at last you occur to me it is as something profuse, fresh and erupting. Alas, when I open the door and reach for you, the chill light comes on and shows you crumpled, cold, and, despite being well within your sell-by-date, in dire need of coaxing.
Oh, Tomato Puree - let me lay you out and pummel those rigid furrows and creases! Reconnecting your fractured substance, so you might push aside the residue of previous abundance and come forth again, in all your kitsch and concentrated splendour.
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Post by RAVENEYE on Oct 10, 2022 9:36:17 GMT -6
Not sure if this fits but I love this prose poem from Claire-Louise Bennett's short story collection Pond ... or at least I feel it's a prose poem. What is a prose poem anyway and who decides what gets to be a prose poem? 
Oh, Tomato Puree! by Claire-Louise Bennett
Oh, Tomato Puree! When at last you occur to me it is as something profuse, fresh and erupting. Alas, when I open the door and reach for you, the chill light comes on and shows you crumpled, cold, and, despite being well within your sell-by-date, in dire need of coaxing.
Oh, Tomato Puree - let me lay you out and pummel those rigid furrows and creases! Reconnecting your fractured substance, so you might push aside the residue of previous abundance and come forth again, in all your kitsch and concentrated splendour.
   Whaaaaaaat? What is this little piece of weirdness? The topic seems so random. Though it does inspire me to scribble poetic thoughts on a can of Campbell's soup or something. And, yeah, I've wondered that myself. Why isn't this just considered a vignette? I've certainly read some passages of prose that deserved to be considered poetry. So ... I have no idea.  |
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Post by havekrillwhaletravel on Oct 13, 2022 4:16:26 GMT -6
   Whaaaaaaat? What is this little piece of weirdness? The topic seems so random. Though it does inspire me to scribble poetic thoughts on a can of Campbell's soup or something. And, yeah, I've wondered that myself. Why isn't this just considered a vignette? I've certainly read some passages of prose that deserved to be considered poetry. So ... I have no idea.  Haha, the whole book is kind of like this: beautiful writing on eccentric topics. I'm actually rereading this and many parts of the book still leave me confused. And yeah, I consider this a prose poem but I honestly have no way of justifying why. It's a vibe, I guess?  This is a poem that popped up on my Reddit feed this morning (this seems to be my main way of finding poetry ) and I thought it was really good [Content warning: Implied domestic abuse?]: When My Daughter Tells Me I Was Never Punkby Jessica L WalshI say, hon, my being alive is punk. I made my life out of grudges when I saw the odds placed against me, when my role was to marry a man who'd kill me and give me my hot young death, a guy named Charles who would have and nearly did - the day I said fuck you and threw his keys in the snow? That was punk. When I called a nice guy who'd loved me steady and thought what if I can try staying alive, that was punk; when I had my last drink and surrendered the scene, that too was punk, and yes I miss the me who would be dead because I was a bottle rocket, a pipe bomb of a good time but my being alive is the middle finger I never put down - I did not let these days go by, I clawed each one from dirt. When I get my nails done I am cleaning weapons, when I buy food, when I fill the tank, I am threatening to survive long enough to piss off a million awful people to be alive in spite of, I am promising to stay flagrantly alive: This is my beautiful house. I am this beautiful wife. How did I get here? I say, By my fucking teeth. |
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Whaaaaaaat? What is this little piece of weirdness? The topic seems so random. Though it does inspire me to scribble poetic thoughts on a can of Campbell's soup or something. 
Whaaaaaaat? What is this little piece of weirdness? The topic seems so random. Though it does inspire me to scribble poetic thoughts on a can of Campbell's soup or something. 
You add them to your profile as you do them around the forum.
