#favorite poem

[paige-spage]

I will not have you without the darkness that hides within you. I will not let you have me without the madness that makes me. If our demons cannot dance, neither can we.

Nikita Gill

#nikita gill #love quotes #life quotes #unconditional love #love #safe space #darkness #relationship #writeblr #writers on tumblr #demons #dance #poems on tumblr #poetry #poetic #feelings #connection #acceptance #favorite poem #female writers #i miss you #but #letting go

[roebby-420]

#eve's bayou #first post #favorite poem

[insane-eli]

"When your mother hits you, do not strike back. When the boys call asking your cup size, say A, hang up. When he says you gave him blue balls, say you’re welcome. When a girl with thick black curls who smells like bubble gum stops you in a stairwell to ask if you’re a boy, explain that you keep your hair short so she won’t have anything to grab when you head-butt her. Then head-butt her. When a guidance counselor teases you for handed-down jeans, do not turn red. When you have sex for the second time and there is no condom, do not convince yourself that screwing between layers of underwear will soak up the semen. When your geometry teacher posts a banner reading: “Learn math or go home and learn how to be a Momma,” do not take your first feminist stand by leaving the classroom. When the boy you have a crush on is sent to detention, go home. When your mother hits you, do not strike back. When the boy with the blue mohawk swallows your heart and opens his wrists, hide the knives, bleach the bathtub, pour out the vodka. Every time. When the skinhead girls jump you in a bathroom stall, swing, curse, kick, do not turn red. When a boy you think you love delivers the first black eye, use a screw driver, a beer bottle, your two good hands. When your father locks the door, break the window. When a college professor writes you poetry and whispers about your tight little ass, do not take it as a compliment, do not wait, call the Dean, call his wife. When a boy with good manners and a thirst for Budweiser proposes, say no. When your mother hits you, do not strike back. When the boys tell you how good you smell, do not doubt them, do not turn red. When your brother tells you he is gay, pretend you already know. When the girl on the subway curses you because your tee shirt reads: “I fucked your boyfriend,” assure her that it is not true. When your dog pees the rug, kiss her, apologize for being late. When he refuses to stay the night because you live in Jersey City, do not move. When he refuses to stay the night because you live in Harlem, do not move. When he refuses to stay the night because your air conditioner is broken, leave him. When he refuses to keep a toothbrush at your apartment, leave him. When you find the toothbrush you keep at his apartment hidden in the closet, leave him. Do not regret this. Do not turn red. When your mother hits you, do not strike back."

-unsolicited advice to adolescent girls with crooked teeth and pink hair

#favorite poem #poems #poetry quotes #words words words

[rieleyradley]

Quote from “Wild Geese”

“Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.”

- Mary Oliver “Wild Geese”

#poetry #poem #wild geese #favorite poem #poems and quotes

[thetoymakers]

I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move.

~ Ulysses by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

#tennyson #ulysses #Palm trees #translation #translating this into Spanish for my lesson today #favorite poem #artbyme

[houseofhurricane]

I don’t think Ada Limón has ever written a bad poem. This one is my favorite, right now.

Those last five lines, the way they come for the throat.

#ada limón #the hurting kind #poetry #favorite poem #love poetry

[clairepatroclus]

#solider poet king #poetry #poets on tumblr #poem #original poem #writers and poets #poetic #poems on tumblr #poems and poetry #my poem #love poem #poemas #poems and quotes #sad poem #short poem #queens #kings and queens #asthetic #vibes #sad poetry #depressing shit #fav #favorite poem #they flee from me #old poem #the tortured poets department

[with-love-a-b]

We didn’t bloom together the way we should have. We never eyed each other across neat soil; both self-conscious and self-righteous as we sipped the sun and, in quiet bursts, raced to touch the sky.

We weren’t planted by gentle hands in soft plots with room to stretch our limbs and shield our eyes, nor to bud in peace and thrive and find identity in both our own bold blossoms and as a pulsing piece of the whole lavish garden.

We didn’t bloom because we erupted. We running-start-swan-dived into stale dirt and were too close from the very beginning. We didn’t sprout up straight; we snaked and lurked and left no bit of earth untouched by our vibrant, stencil weed fingers declaring ourselves alive.

By harvest we were tangled beyond repair. By harvest I didn’t know me from you, and I liked it.

To be so entwined is lovely but depends on a balance we could only begin to grasp. To expand but not uproot requires perfect synchronicity maybe not beyond our years but certainly beyond our maturity. We spread out our emotions like tarot cards on a towel in the grass, and reflected in your sunglasses I met the silent pieces of me. In colorful, grim drawings those quiet, ugly bits floated up veins and settled under ribs. They stayed silent. Until they began to scream.

And you and I — we didn’t have the words, not our own words that we earned and burned while stumbling across months and plains, tripping over potholes and finding our feet quicker each time. We had place-holder words we sang back and forth and splashed around and bathed in. The words we spoke were profound and cardboard. We were just reading lines, sharing identical scripts and an ache to be seen so deep and desperate it was sinful.

We shared the humid cling of regret, which hung heavy in stuck-air auditoriums; its beaded sweat echoed, rolling down spines and turning blood to sticky wax as we whispered in the corner about the things we could say aloud while our minds never left the things we wouldn’t dare.

We were mostly ill-equipped. We joked about hurricanes; We didn’t survive the first storm.

I want you to know you really hurt my feelings. I want you to know you’re the first guy I’ve given my feelings to hurt. I want you to know I was terrible towards the end. And I know that. But you gave up on me.

You gave up on me at the exact moment I was giving up on myself. Even as my tongue stung metallic and veins pulsed so hot and loud through my eardrums that I felt I would explode — it was clean. It was all remarkably clean and sterile. There were no explosions. No shattered plates, bloody knuckles, or blown-out voices that scratched and rose in time with the sun.

Just a quick slash of rope — an anchor cut loose and left to sink; our secrets were set free to rust over and collect algae. We were suddenly off the hook for any vulnerability we might have spilled on each other in our fits of laughter and hours of sleep. A deep sigh of relief. A deeper sigh of desolation.

The moment exists in sad yellow lighting that must have been added in retrospect. I tweaked the floor of my memory too: at that moment I was not wearing flip flops on linoleum — but sinking, slowly and barefoot, into chilly riverbed mud as it turned to ice.

I opened the door, and there you stood. You knew I had been crying, and I didn’t try to hide it; it was too exhausting — running on fumes.

And I did expect something from you, anything from you, that might dull the singed-dagger plunging stab to my chest with each breath I gulped and spat . I wanted anything that might reel me in from the cliffs edge where my thoughts had carried me on horseback.

But you had nothing. I watched your eyes glaze over my swollen lips and pinced, glassy eyes. You threw back the melted, Picasso-esque mask where my face once was, like a quick, sharp shot of warm whiskey. Careful to avoid eye contact you slipped “fuck this” under your breath and started to reach for my hand.

You started to, but then after a second suspended, you let your arm fall back to your body. Head lowered, jaw clenched and you turned and fled with a new heaviness pushing down on your posture. It looked painful and adult. It looked like you finally felt the weight of our season. And watching you go, I shrank in lighter and thicker because I felt it too.

We are not going to get a happy ending — not with each other and not right now. Maybe not ever. And that will have to do. (Though I will miss your hand in mine. I hope one day you’ll remember being tangled with me, and it will make you laugh before you cringe because I didn’t like to be alone.)

If I wanted to be alone, I would just go home.

-Kiernan Norman

#poetry #favorite poem #love poetry #love poem #Kiernan Norman #germ magazine

[lancewayne]

#poetry #favorite poem

[brookheimer]

favorite thing ab chatgpt is that if it doesn’t know something it’ll just start fucking lying. like blatantly fucking lying.

my dad teaches english classes and he just got a final paper with this sentence: “In terms of style, both poets are known for their use of imagery, but O'Hara's tends to be more straightforward and concrete, while Stevens' is often more abstract and metaphorical — for example, in O'Hara's poem "The French / Window," he writes: "A cat walks along the garden wall / and the tree waves its branches / The French / windows are blah" (lines 1-4).”

the thing about “The French / Window” is that it is not a poem that exists. at all. like, it was literally just written by chatgpt then inexplicably named as a famous frank o’hara poem. and it’s so. fucking. funny. sooo basically heads up for finals season — those of you who use chatgpt, be warned, because you will quite literally be citing nonexistent texts and your professors will show it to their daughters and together they will laugh at you endlessly and you will deserve it

#ah yes. my favorite o’hara line: ‘the french / windows are blah.’ #y’all trust chatgpt WAY too much this is embarrassing. imagine studying o’hara all semester and thinking this was one of the poems you read #The French / Window #loling #at least fact check it a LITTLE bit guys #frank o’hara #chatgpt #100 #500 #1000 #this got notes?? #5000 #10k #christ

[atompowers]

Rain Light, by W.S. Merwin

"see how they wake without question

even as the whole world is burning"

#keep going #w s merwin #w.s. merwin #Merwin #poem #poetry #world on fire #burning #climate #collective #resistance #persistence #change #favorite #favorite poem

[and-corn]

#this was the first comic that i made in this style and i think it's still my favorite #comic #comic art #original comic #web comic #webcomic #illustration #illustrated story #relatable #thoughtful #thoughtful comic #thoughtful writing #writing #original story #original poetry #prose poetry #short poem #illustrated prose #original art #illustrative art #storytelling #relatable story #relatable writing #ramblings #random thoughts #comic artist #illustration artist #amateur poet #poetry art #artists of tumblr

[sweetlittlestarbursts]

"Tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway."

Edgar Allan Poe

#poetry #edgar allan poe #this one is my favorite #words words words #poems #poems on tumblr #poetic #prose #dark academia #falling in love #poem #poems and poetry #edgar allan poe quotes #literally words

[marimuntanya]

El hombre no ha nacido para tener las manos amarradas al poste de los rezos. Dios no quiere rodillas humilladas en los templos, sino piernas de fuego galopando, manos acariciando las entrañas del hierro, mentes pariendo brasas, labios haciendo besos. Digo que yo trabajo, vivo, pienso, y que esto que yo hago es un buen rezo, que a Dios le gusta mucho y respondo por ello. Y digo que el amor es el mejor sacramento, que os amo, que amo y que no tengo sitio en el infierno

Jorge Debravo, “Digo”

#digo #jorge debravo #poetry #national poetry month day 7 #national poetry month #april #poet #poeisis #poesia #purpose #poeta #digo by jorge debravo #favorite poem

[sweatermuppet]

Blessed Be by Sol Rios, published in Ghost of my Ghosts

#was immensely honored to write the foreword for gomg!! probably my favorite poem from the entire collection #sol rios #ghost of my ghosts #currently reading #queer poetry #trans poetry #silas denver melvin #contemporary poetry #modern poetry

[birb-boyo]

Shout out to Percy Shelly for making my favorite poem ever

I met a traveller from an antique land,

Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

Ozymandias my beloved

#percy shelly my beloved #OZYMANDIAS MY BELOVED #favorite poem #team time