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#one of my favorite poems
hartenlust · 4 months
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Lines written at the dragonfly emergence, Johnson, Vermont - K. A. Hays in Anthropocene Lullaby.
For seven hundred thirty nights, she scooted
and gamboled in the water's underdark.
For twenty-four full moons she burst out
to barb flesh in the water's underdark.
Then the nymph felt a largeness in her, a discomfort,
and crawled from the water onto rocks, feeling air on the skin,
and her thorax pushed her new head through,
breaking above her tubal heart a square hole,
new eyes protruding. Her legs bent, she climbed out
of herself and found footing on her cracked back,
then crouched, the abdomen dripping,
a wet expulsion, the dragonfly twice as long
as the nymph where it grew,
neither self nor superior, only different,
the former fine for the former world,
the present fine for the present world,
and when she spreads her new wings to dry,
the floods and heat waves she's hunkered through
show up in her wings' size, their shape,
the dragonfly body a warning of warming seas,
showing the emergency with her body in emergence,
showing need for change by her change, migrating north
beyond the range of her ancestors, to spin and gobble
and clutch in an ever-warmer earth.
Unlike the birds, who, as small reptiles
hundreds of millions of years ago,
bartered pairs of legs for wings, she insisted
on her six legs, and took wings as well,
and so became more terrifying and agile
than the angels, and more present
in the crisis, prophesying:
the only way is to transform.
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o-wise-corvid · 1 year
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Dathomiri Word of the Day
Ece nol nethru ōnzh vīn dreno dō,
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Jed jo’ā al’ucurr lu irtak so zār fo rēn;
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
E’rros, e’rros stagn Ōlen fa vīn rēn.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
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venusdevotea · 11 months
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Loving you is bending the corner of the page only to have it kept between my fingers forever more for fear of having it lost. - a collection of confessions vol. II
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mi-corazon · 2 years
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if you're feeling brave -- voice reveal? 🥰💕
Tonight I Can Write by Pablo Neruda (translation by WS Merwin)
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orangerosebush · 2 years
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happylittletrees3 · 1 year
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I feel like this is relevant right now.
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THE ROAD NOT TAKEN
by: Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
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mrpoeticjoker · 2 years
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Lost Control
Fear starts to spread as the familiar rage begins to overtake me If only people knew what was happening, if only they could see. But no one recognizes the signs, the tremors in my body, the darkening eyes No one sees the monster inside me; no one hears my desperate cries. The monster is back, bloodthirsty as ever, desiring to cause even more pain Every time he comes out, I lose more of myself, become more and more insane. He takes over, binds me with his hate, and locks me away I never know how long he’ll imprison me for, whether a few hours or a whole day. Someone, anyone, I beg you, please, hear my cries, come and set me free Just release these shackles; can’t you see that this is not who I want to be? I try my hardest to win control, but his hatred crushes my will For he’s stronger now; I can sense this time he has intent to kill. The only thing I feel is the burn of his many cuts over my exposed veins He said he just wants to help, and that this is the only way to stop the real pain. In desperation to stop this pain, I believe him and his web of lies As he holds the knife out to me, I realize he’s just helping, he’s truly quite wise. With determination in my eyes, I take the knife from him and make a tighter fist Like a skilled artist, I create new bloody designs that flow from my cut up wrists. My blood drips down like gentle rain, and forms a dark puddle on the floor In my head, I hear my monster sweetly whispering to me “that’s it, just a little more”. Like a student desperate to please his master, I begin to slice faster and deeper All this time, it’s felt like I was climbing a hill, but suddenly that hill seems steeper. My arms burn, my legs become weak; I try to move but slip on something slick I look around, see a red floor: I lost a lot of blood, and lost it too quick. I feel tired, all I want to do is just lay here on the floor, and get some rest As I start to drift away, I realize that maybe this cutting idea wasn’t the best. I can feel the fire beginning to fade, replaced with an icy feeling that’s spreading fast I feel betrayed, for I believed his lie that by doing this I would find peace at last. Instead I feel nothing but regret, and an overwhelming sense of fear For it’s finally dawned on me that I went too far, it’s too late, now my end is here. My eyesight dims, breathing becomes labored, head begins to pound With frantic eyes, I look for my monster for help, but he’s nowhere to be found. He’s gone, no longer inside me; his lust finally satisfied after all these long years I’m alone; no monster here, only a blood stained knife and a pool of red tears. My strength is gone; I finally lost the fight against my depression and sorrow I fall into the shadows of darkness, never again to wake to another tomorrow.
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brookheimer · 11 months
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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
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arcanespillo · 5 months
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THE CRIPPLE IN THE SUBWAY, Louise Gluck
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jennyjesusrodriguez · 6 months
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Weekends by Viggo Mortensen
youtube
Weekends
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sweetlittlestarbursts · 2 months
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"Tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway."
Edgar Allan Poe
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ailelie · 1 year
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"The Mermaid" by W. B. Yeats
A mermaid found a swimming lad, Picked him for her own, Pressed her body to his body, Laughed; and plunging down Forgot in cruel happiness That even lovers drown.
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we lived happily during the war
ilya kaminsky, from the book Deaf Republic
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The Giver of Stars by Amy Lowell
Hold your soul open for my welcoming. Let the quiet of your spirit bathe me With its clear and rippled coolness, That, loose-limbed and weary, I find rest, Outstretched upon your peace, as on a bed of ivory.
Let the flickering flame of your soul play all about me, That into my limbs may come the keenness of fire, The life and joy of tongues of flame, And, going out from you, tightly strung and in tune, I may rouse the blear-eyed world, And pour into it the beauty which you have begotten.
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