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#linda pastan
geopsych · 2 days ago
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November
—by Linda Pastan
It is an old drama
this disappearance of the leaves,
this seeming death
of the landscape.
In a later scene,
or earlier,
the trees like gnarled magicians
produce handkerchiefs
of leaves
out of empty branches.
And we watch.
We are like children
at this spectacle
of leaves,
as if one day we too
will open the wooden doors
of our coffins
and come out smiling
and bowing
all over again.
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universallovebot · a month ago
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what is grief if not love persevering?
the year of magical thinking - joan didion // the five stages of grief - linda pastan // untitled (ft. ada limòn’s bright dead things) - @heavensghost // boot theory (crush) - richard siken // fleabag (2016-2019) - created by phoebe waller-bridge // the glass essay (glass, irony and god) - anne carson // lost without you pt. 14 - @qoa // the sea - john banville // what mo(u)rning feels like - houston cofield // the truth about grief - fortesa latifi
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apoemaday · 10 days ago
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Why Are Your Poems so Dark?
by Linda Pastan
Isn't the moon dark too, most of the time? And doesn't the white page seem unfinished without the dark stain of alphabets? When God demanded light, he didn't banish darkness. Instead he invented ebony and crows and that small mole on your left cheekbone. Or did you mean to ask "Why are you sad so often?" Ask the moon. Ask what it has witnessed.
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memoryslandscape · 18 days ago
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Looking back on the scenery of my own life--the maple desk where I sat, trying to make stories of death my own-- I try to remember exactly when innocence turned into something else. To the kind of knowledge I live with now. To what feels almost like longing.
Linda Pastan, from “Mirage,” Gettysburg Review (vol. 33, no. 3, Sept. 2020)
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firstfullmoon · 6 months ago
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I am learning to abandon the world before it can abandon me. Already I have given up the moon and snow, closing my shades against the claims of white. And the world has taken my father, my friends. I have given up melodic lines of hills, moving to a flat, tuneless landscape. And every night I give my body up limb by limb, working upwards across bone, towards the heart. But morning comes with small reprieves of coffee and birdsong. A tree outside the window which was simply shadow moments ago takes back its branches twig by leafy twig. And as I take my body back the sun lays its warm muzzle on my lap as if to make amends.
— Linda Pastan, “I Am Learning To Abandon the World”
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metamorphesque · 4 months ago
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Why Are Your Poems so Dark? | Linda Pastan
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headlightsforever · 2 months ago
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Linda Pastan, “Go Gentle”
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lunchboxpoems · 5 months ago
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LINDA PASTAN
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dk-thrive · 3 months ago
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I ask. Why not live each day as if it were the first — all raw astonishment?
You tell me to live each day as if it were my last. This is in the kitchen where before coffee I complain of the day ahead - that obstacle race of minutes and hours, grocery stores and doctors. But why the last? I ask. Why not live each day as if it were the first - all raw astonishment, Eve rubbing her eyes awake that first morning, the sun coming up like an ingénue in the east? You grind the coffee with the small roar of a mind trying to clear itself. I set the table, glance out the window where dew has baptized every living surface.
- Linda Pastan, “Imaginary Conversation” in Insomnia: Poems (W. W. Norton & Company; March 28, 2017) (via Whiskey River)
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viperslang · 2 months ago
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"In the hierarchy of flowers, the wild rise on their stems for naming. Call them weeds. I pick them as I picked you, for their fierce, unruly joy."
Linda Pastan, “Wildflowers”
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invisiblebeesstuff · 2 months ago
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"In the evening my griefs come to me one by one. They tell me what I had hoped to forget. They perch on my shoulders like mourning doves. They are the colour of light fading."
- Linda Pastan, from "Old Woman," The Five Stages of Grief
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apoemaday · 7 months ago
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The Happiest Day
by Linda Pastan
It was early May, I think a moment of lilac or dogwood when so many promises are made it hardly matters if a few are broken. My mother and father still hovered in the background, part of the scenery like the houses I had grown up in, and if they would be torn down later that was something I knew but didn’t believe. Our children were asleep or playing, the youngest as new as the new smell of the lilacs, and how could I have guessed their roots were shallow and would be easily transplanted. I didn’t even guess that I was happy. The small irritations that are like salt on melon were what I dwelt on, though in truth they simply made the fruit taste sweeter. So we sat on the porch in the cool morning, sipping hot coffee. Behind the news of the day— strikes and small wars, a fire somewhere— I could see the top of your dark head and thought not of public conflagrations but of how it would feel on my bare shoulder. If someone could stop the camera then… if someone could only stop the camera and ask me: are you happy? Perhaps I would have noticed how the morning shone in the reflected color of lilac. Yes, I might have said and offered a steaming cup of coffee.
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memoryslandscape · 8 months ago
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Consider the white space between words on a page, not just the margins around them. Or the space between thoughts: instants when the mind is inventing exactly what it thinks and the mouth waits to be filled with language. Consider the space between lovers after a quarrel, the white sheet a cold metaphor between them.
Linda Pastan, from “Consider the Space Between Stars,” Poetry of Presence: An Anthology of Mindfulness Poems, eds. Phyllis Cole-Dai & Ruby R. Wilson (Grayson Books, 2017)
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firstfullmoon · 6 months ago
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I want to write you a love poem as headlong as our creek after thaw when we stand on its dangerous banks and watch it carry with it every twig every dry leaf and branch in its path every scruple when we see it so swollen with runoff that even as we watch we must grab each other and step back we must grab each other or get our shoes soaked we must grab each other
— Linda Pastan, “Love Poem”
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on1yconnect · a year ago
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august
watching the perseids, isabel rogers / august, taylor swift / the months, linda pastan / august, flipturn / will you be quiet, please? raymond carver
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bolsterthebottomline · 10 months ago
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“agoraphobia,” autoheart / “the bedroom,” vincent van gogh / “agoraphobia,” linda pastan / “neighbors no. 66,” arne svenson / “life as we knew it,” susan beth pfeffer / “bobby at home,” holly warburton / “the separate notebooks,” czesław miłosz 
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lunchboxpoems · 3 months ago
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THE NEW DOG
Into the gravity of my life,
the serious ceremonies
of polish and paper and pen, has come
this manic animal
whose innocent disruptions
make nonsense
of my old simplicities
as if I needed him
to prove again that after
all the careful planning
anything can happen.
LINDA PASTAN
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wellconstructedsentences · 3 months ago
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Barefoot and sun-dazed, I bite into this ripe peach of a month
The Months by Linda Pastan
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tonguebreaks · a month ago
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October
How suddenly the woods have turned again. I feel
like Daphne, standing with my arms outstretched to the season,
overtaken by color, crowned with the hammered gold of leaves.
Linda Pastan, from “The Months” 
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imaginemirage · 2 months ago
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"You tell me to live each day
as if it were my last. This is in the kitchen
where before coffee I complain
of the day ahead- that obstacle race
of minutes and hours,
grocery stores and doctors.
But why the last? I ask. Why not
live each day as if it were the first-
all raw astonishment, Eve rubbing
her eyes awake that first morning,
the sun coming up
like an ingénue in the east?
You grind the coffee
with the small roar of a mind
trying to clear itself. I set
the table, glance out the window
where dew has baptized every
living surface."
Linda Pastan
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