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#american poetry
garadinervi · 6 hours ago
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James Baldwin, For Paula on her birthday, then 'Some Days (for Paula)' in 'Jimmy's Blues: Selected Poems', Michael Joseph, London, 1983 [Collection of the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture, Washington, D.C. © James Baldwin Estate]
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barcarole · 2 years ago
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Edna St. Vincent Millay at Mitchell Kennerly's house in Mamaroneck, New York, 1914.
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barcarole · 2 years ago
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All night I heard the small kingdoms breathing around me, the insects, and the birds who do their work in the darkness. All night I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling with a luminous doom. By morning I had vanished at least a dozen times into something better.
Mary Oliver, Sleeping in the Forest (from Twelve Moons).
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detroitlib · 2 years ago
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Edna St. Vincent Millay (February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950) 
American poet and playwright. She received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1923. The poet Richard Wilbur asserted, "She wrote some of the best sonnets of the century." (Wikipedia)
From our stacks: Poem ‘Witch-Wife’ and title page from Renascence and Other Poems By Edna St. Vincent Millay. New York and London: Harper & Brothers, 1917.
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enthymesis · 2 years ago
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Conrad Aiken, from The Jig of Forslin: A Symphony; “Part III”
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fromsappho · 8 years ago
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Okay, Ophelia " We've heard you were a victim. Stop crouching in shadows, chewing your hair. You can be graceful, not like a ballerina, like a hedge of coral, Built up and eaten and worn down yet alive, carving the rhythms of the seas. You can be a threshing sledge, new and sharp with many teeth.
Jeannine Hall Gailey, "Okay, Ophelia" (from her collection "Becoming the Villainess" 
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bellsofatlantis · 11 months ago
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I may be trying to destroy you in order to live. I may only be trying to love you.
Alice Notley, from In the Pines
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feral-ballad · 7 months ago
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I loved you before I was born. It doesn’t make sense, I know. I saw your eyes before I had eyes to see. And I’ve lived longing for your every look ever since. That longing entered time as this body. And the longing grew as this body waxed. And the longing grows as this body wanes. That longing will outlive this body. I loved you before I was born. It makes no sense, I know. Long before eternity, I caught a glimpse of your neck and shoulders, your ankles and toes. And I’ve been lonely for you from that instant. That loneliness appeared on earth as this body. And my share of time has been nothing but your name outrunning my ever saying it clearly. Your face fleeing my ever kissing it firmly once on the mouth. In longing, I am most myself, rapt, my lamp mortal, my light hidden and singing. I give you my blank heart. Please write on it what you wish.
Li-Young Lee, from The Undressing: Poems; “I loved you before I was born”
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virgin-martyr · 7 months ago
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Her winter-beheaded daisies, marrowless, gaunt,
Sylvia Plath, excerpt from “The Snowman on the Moor”
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virgin-martyr · 6 months ago
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Grown milky, almost clear, like the bodies of saints.
Sylvia Plath, excerpt from "Candles”
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jawnkeets · 6 months ago
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Edward Hirsch, ‘The Widening Sky’, from Lay Back the Darkness (2003)
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