#Mary Jo Bang

[derangedrhythms]

Look at her—It’s as if / The windows of night have been sewn to her eyes.

Mary Jo Bang, Elegy; from ‘Ode to History’

#mary jo bang #elegy #ode to history #poetry #excerpts #night

[woundgallery]

Mary Jo Bang from A Doll for Throwing

#each open mouth is a blind spot #mary jo bang #poetry #text #favorite poetry

[dr4gme]

#web weaving #poetry #quotes #parallels #sylvia plath #sue zhao #mary jo bang #oscar wilde #georges bataille #fyodor dostoevsky #self destruction

[intopermanence]

Each open mouth is a blind spot. Want. Want. Want. I catch sight of myself in a mirror.

Mary Jo Bang, from A Doll for Throwing: “The Chess Set on a Table Between Two Chairs”

#Mary Jo Bang #Lucia Moholy #American literature #non-fiction #poetry

[aschenblumen]

Desnuda o no, soy un disfraz que se mueve, una figurita que cambia de rostro. Podríamos decir que soy un estado de ánimo. Comienzo feliz pero a veces me pongo solemne al enfrentar mi propia mitología (...). El comienzo de hoy terminó en un sueño. En una cama fantástica, un amante se inclinaba a besarme justo cuando me di cuenta de que yo era parte máquina, parte deseo primitivo. Salí de la cama y le dije: sabes, ¿no?, no todo el mundo está tan dispuesto. Y entonces oí desde adentro de mi cabeza: deberías decir que no todo el mundo está tan dispuesto a tu utopía. Recién entonces me di cuenta de que había sido imprecisa. Incluso aquí hay molestos que te dicen cómo tienes que ser. A veces viven adentro. Desnuda o no, intento plegar mis brazos imperceptiblemente detrás de mi espalda, para que mis pechos y mi cabeza extremadamente simplificada sean todo lo que puedas ver.

—Mary Jo Bang, «Figura humana con vestido» en Una muñeca para lanzar. Traducción de Patricio Grinberg y Aníbal Cristobo.

#mary jo bang #una muñeca para lanzar #a doll for throwing #patricio grinberg #aníbal cristobo

[violettesiren]

The cold is a knife-slice on the skin. The heart says no, over and over. This is not what you want.

What you want is that plush crimson blanket called love: the pulsing blood-rush that provokesa

minimetamorphosis. An object, held by a gaze, radiating being. You would say passion but a demon

has sewn your lips shut. The silver needle lies there like the melting sunlit snow beneath your feet.

It looks up as if to ask, Tell me, how often do you feel the way you feel?

The Dead of Winter by Mary Jo Bang

#mary jo bang

[othellho]

— You Were You Are Elegy, Mary Jo Bang

#i just need somewhere to store my fave lill poems #words #poetry #mary jo bang #on grief #for keeps

[jessicainlecto]

Part IV: Yet Another 15 Favourite Poems

Avec ses vêtements ondoyants et nacrés, by Charles Baudelaire

We lived happily during the war, by Ilya Kaminsky

After great pain, a formal feeling comes, by Emily Dickinson  

You Were You are Elegy, by Mary Jo Bang

I Promise Nothing: Friends Will Part, by A.E. Housman 

Separation, and 

To ________, by W.S. Merwin 

Portrait of a Lady, by T.S. Eliot 

Your Catfish Friend, by Richard Brautigan 

Nostos, and

The Untrustworthy Speaker, by Louise Glück  

#28 from Contradictions: Tracking Poems, by Adrienne Rich 

Meditations in an Emergency, by Cameron Awkward-Rich 

Polaroids, by Charles Wright 

Invitation, by Mary Oliver 

See also Part One, Part Two, Part Three 

#poem #poetry #TS Eliot #ilya kaminsky #emily dickinson #ae housman #ws merwin #richard brautigan #Louise Glück #adrienne rich #cameron awkward rich #charles wright #baudelaire #charles baudelaire #mary oliver #mary jo bang #gratitude #just to be alive #separation #catfish friend #nostos #invitation #favpoems

[driftlessarearev]

Translation Tuesdays: Colonies of Paradise, by Matthias Goritz @nyjb

A series dedicated to literature in translation whether classic or contemporary. Ranging across the globe and excavating past and present, Colonies of Paradise by Matthias Göritz is a personal journey of self-discovery.

View On WordPress

#book #book reviews #Colonies of Paradise #german #german language #german literature #langfocus #Mary Jo Bang #Matthias Goritz #poetry #TriQuarterly Books #Youtube

[apollosms4nger]

In the Garden Behind the Master’s House

By Mary Jo Bang

Does the erotic exist outside architecture? The shepherd

asleep, the shepherd awake—his staff in his hand. Sweet

are the fields of. Exiled from home am. A sandwich of

tendered lamb. Overhead, stars marvel in a heaven of

now. As soon as we have a building, we have a mash-up

of the dystopic present and the future that will not sit

still. A is for agitation. B is for building a house. What

does it mean to be a master. To have mastery. One ­

woman, one man. Who is whom. Self-interest as an

imperative is unlike any other. Where does one live. It’s

early in the history of coupling. No one is more alone.

#apollo quotes #literature #poem #poetry #poetry recs #study blog #studyblr #quotes #reading #booklr #mary jo bang #paris review #daily poem #dark academia #light acadamia aesthetic

[poem-today]

A poem by Mary Jo Bang

The Bread, the Butter, the Orange Marmalade

Nothing was what I wanted. The bread, white chalk. The butter, rancidity. The marmalade, bitterness. The nail on my right hand, the ragged ending to a difficult day. He’d said, Oh, really,

you’re wearing that? I was, I said. But now there was no room for me in the room. The lights were too bright. Always a problem when windows faced the sun. Especially

when the sky showed its face for too long. No rain for days, then, suddenly, rain. I’d worn the red shoes and now they would be ruined. How to care less. That phrase, “I couldn’t

care less,” as if zero were already a viewpoint. There were two doors into the house: the front door, which was rarely used, and the side door, which was accessed by entering the screened

porch where my stepfather’s wood was stacked against the wall. A tall bin of nails anchored the corner. What was he building now? The baby was heavy in my arms. If I put him

down, he’d undoubtedly wake. I could tell, time was a migraine heading straight for my right eye. The waking baby’s cry would be an expert knife through injured flesh. It was that kind of a season.

Mary Jo Bang

Listen to Mary Jo Bang read her poem

Published in the print edition of The New Yorker July 4, 2022

#mary jo bang #american poetry #the bread #the butter #the orange marmalade

[woundgallery]

Mary Jo Bang from A Film in Which I Play Everyone

#mary jo bang #poetry #text

[kamreadsandrecs]

#books #writing #poetry #mary jo bang #a film in which i play everyone

[intopermanence]

I wasn't a child for long and after I wasn't, I was something else. I was this. And that.

Mary Jo Bang, from A Doll for Throwing: “Self-portrait in the Bathroom Mirror”

#Mary Jo Bang #Lucia Moholy #American literature #non-fiction #poetry

[kammartinez]

#mary jo bang #poetry #books #a film in which i play everyone

[violettesiren]

April was marching to an easy puppet beat. Slow vernal birth, cyclical drizzle. There was little that gave much surprise: the too-heavy hair, long with cool stars—pin pricks in a watery bed sheet.

In a trice, the hard rain arrived (and was most unpolite). Someone had to broadcast the warning: April is. The biennial, of course, was canceled—in its place, an improv event: the no-nostalgia picnic

for the impudent few who had fallen in love with amnesia. The river overspilled, the house went under. Uneasy acceptance of rampant destruction. In April's court, you talk—sure—but she don't listen.

When April Was Beginning, and End by Mary Jo Bang

#mary jo bang