1. "I’m not sure if I believe in poetry as healing
    so much as I believe in

    poetry
    as chicken necks, poetry as red meat,
    poetry as fishing lures

    baiting you out of me."
    — "Poetry As Healing" Trista Mateer (via tristamateer)

    (via whiskeydynamite)

     

  2. "i think i met all the
    wrong men before
    you and i think they
    ruined me but i
    think you’re really
    handsome the way
    a map is handsome,
    with skin wide open
    soaked in the whole
    world’s ink."
    — Safia Elhillo, “susie knuckles in love” (via oofpoetry)

    (via whiskeydynamite)

     

  3. "

    I.
    Our kiss is a secret handshake, a password.
    We love like spies, like bruised prize fighters,
    Like children building tree houses.
    Our love is serious business.

    One look from you and my spine reincarnates as kite string.

    When I hesitate to hold your hand,
    it is because to know is to be responsible for knowing.

    II.
    There is no clean way to enter
    the heavy machinery of the heart.

    Just jagged cutthroat questions.
    Just the glitter and blood production.

    III.
    The truth is this:
    My love for you is the only empire
    I will ever build.

    When it falls,
    as all empires do,
    my career in empire building will be over.

    I will retreat to an island.
    I will dabble in the vacation-hut industry.
    I will skulk about the private libraries and public parks.

    I will fold the clean clothes.
    I will wash the dishes.
    I will never again dream of having the whole world.

    "
    — Mindy Nettifee, “This is the Nonsense of Love” (via oofpoetry)

    (via whiskeydynamite)

     

  4. The Drunk and the Madman


     I am lost in your face, in your lost eyes.
    The drunk and the madman inside me
    take a liking to each other. They sit down 
    on the ground together. Look at this mess 
    of a life as the sun looks fondly into ruins.

    With one glance many trees grow from a single seed.
    Your two eyes are like a Turk born in Persia.
    He is on a rampage, a Persian shoooting Turkish arrows.
    He has ransacked my house,
    so that no one lives there anymore,
    just a boy running barefooted all through it.

    Your face is a garden that comes up where the house was.
    With our hands we tear down houses and make bare places.
    The moon has no desire to be described.

    No one needs this poetry.
    The loose hair strands of a beautiful woman
    do not have to be combed.

    - Rumi

     

  5. "I remember one morning getting up at dawn, there was such a sense of possibility. You know, that feeling? And I remember thinking to myself this is the beginning of happiness. This is where it starts. And of course there will always be more. It never occurred to me it wasn’t the beginning. It was happiness. It was the moment. Right then."
    — 

    (Source: wikiquote.com, via underadeepbluesea)

     
  6.  

  7. "

    My notebook has remained blank for months
    thanks to the light you shower
    around me. I have no use
    for my pen, which lies
    languorously without grief.

    Nothing is better than to live
    a storyless life that needs
    no writing for meaning—
    when I am gone, let others say
    they lost a happy man,
    though no one can tell how happy I was.

    "
    — Ha Jin, “Missed Time,”  Poetry (July 2000). (via literarymiscellany)

    (via commovente)

     

  8. 167 B: Leaving Home

    i am wordless, silent, sacred

    in this moment; such peace.

    although my insides are scattered

    your clouded overtake surounds me.

    i will miss you, deep comfort

    your morning rise and your nightly wake

    when i stretch out my limbs and seek,

    you are the skyline i’ll wish to see.

    red brick, blackened stone, fluffed white cat

    my eyes are blessed to see you. always.

    make room for me, future

    i will return,

    to love you.

     

  9. In Transit

    How vigorously did you spin the dice,

    and when you love

    is it as hard as you kiss?

    Tonight, I travelled 13 miles

    in silence

    with a wistful stranger. All i got -

    the turn of his neck

    the slow pace of his walk

    the quiet of his shuffle,

    every corner turning

    promptly

    with mine.

    Between the As and Bs, the hushed

    intricacy of transience. Between your soul

    and your fingertips - where would you place me?

    I would say

    amongst the gleam of your curls and

    the burn of your charred eyes.

    What say you?

    I like when I have more questions

    than answers. Sometimes

    when the moon hangs overhead and the stars float

    in the undertow, I wonder,

    what if my reflection is right beside me?

    what if

    I’ve been seeing it wrong all along?

    Sometimes, when the moon hands overhead

    and the stars float in the undertow,

    I wonder,

    do you love as hard as you kiss,

    and where were you going, polite stranger,

    when you turned down the corner and blurred into the night?

    In transit,

    we are all fireflies disappearing in the sun.

    In transit

    we are all incomplete.

     

  10. Joy

    Happiness is a watered cactus
    waiting in a line at CVS
    hoping for a quiet night in.
    I hope you don’t let yourself dry.

    You make me breathe, easy and spacious.
    I wish my limbs could stretch for miles,
    cloaking you in safety when your blundered soul
    punches and shakes
    bruising your forehead like a
    skinned peach,
    pounding hard into a headboard until daybreak.

    You mourn the air you breathe
    and the scars you sleep with,
    but I mourn that morning
    when I burned my tongue on hot coffee
    rather than tell you, softly,
    that I love you

    Stand up, walk long like you do.
    You are joy,
    and your
    headboard is iron.

     

  11. "Maybe my limbs are made
    mostly for decoration,
    like the way I feel about
    persimmons. You can’t
    really eat them. Or you
    wouldn’t want to. If you grab
    the soft skin with your fist
    it somehow feels funny,
    like you’ve been here
    before and uncomfortable,
    too, like you’d rather
    squish it between your teeth
    impatiently, before spitting
    the soft parts back up
    to linger on the tongue like
    burnt sugar or guilt.
    For starters, it was all
    an accident, you cut
    the right branch
    and a sort of light
    woke up underneath,
    and the inedible fruit
    grew dark and needy.
    Think crucial hanging.
    Think crayon orange.
    There is one low, leaning
    heart-shaped globe left
    and dearest, can you
    tell, I am trying
    to love you less."
    — "Crush," Ada Limón  (via commovente)
     

  12. Anonymous said: I saw you're taking requests. Could you write 100 words on advertising?

    benedictsmith:

    Advertising agencies sold products by exploiting people’s insecurities. “Buy this product or no one will fuck you”, they said. “Buy this product or you’ll never be accepted”. The people in charge made a lot of money this way, and they spent that money on stuff they didn’t need, out of fear that no one would fuck them, or they’d never be accepted. It would be nicer if adverts told us not to bother with society’s narrow parameters of beauty, since we’re just energy as old as the universe, forged in the furnaces of stars. But stars don’t buy anti-wrinkle cream.

     

  13. "Can you believe what the eloquence of these asteroids
    tells us? that we are thrown through space from one
    explosion to another? How amazing any love has endured!
    In spite of the fact that so many tendrils of hope
    wither in the sun, in spite of the way the flower now
    seems to feed on the bees, that the lake seems to shackle
    the sky, that the roots pull down the tree, in spite of the fact
    that the clouds drag the earth towards some new final solution.
    It doesn’t matter where. There’s a whole alphabet of hate,
    a syntax of torture we can hardly understand. Petrified
    promises take the day by the hand and lead her off
    into some jungle. A couple of cigarettes walk towards
    the dark end of a pier. A child’s music shatters
    like a broken violin. I used to think that any love we could
    find is enough. It isn’t. It isn’t enough to plant our precious
    gardens of hope in the sky. It isn’t enough to write
    by the fading candle of our eyes. It isn’t enough to read
    some future by the petals of the flower. Never enough.
    We have to understand this love in the way the thorn defends it.
    We can’t let the moon rest its drowsy head on our rooftops.
    We have to capture every wayward flash on the night sky and
    not let our words burn up in the atmosphere. We have to follow
    wherever they were heading. Sometimes I think we are all
    hurtling through love at the speed of light. Maybe it is a question
    of what galaxy we will crash into. Even now, you have to hear
    what the arrow says before it strikes. You have to know
    I will follow you over rivers of stone, even while you hold
    my heart in your fist, that every love is filled with guilt, every love
    tries to conquer a new world. I think sometimes we breathe
    through the pores of the earth. It’s the only way we know
    the soul’s body. It’s the only way we can pass over the hobbled
    roads of hate, the only way to shudder as the birds shudder
    crossing the horizon. I am watching a bat scoop the emptiness
    from the night, watching the hackberry embrace the moon.
    Sometimes we have to hold hands with our own nightmares.
    When I tell you that the voice of the nightingale turns dark
    you have to understand what this love is trying to overcome,
    you have to know that if you ever leave, if you ever disappear,
    the sky would rip, and the stars would lose their way."
    — Richard Jackson, Night Sky
     
  14.  

  15. "A woman from the audience asks: ‘Why were there so few women among the Beat writers?’ and [Gregory] Corso, suddenly utterly serious, leans forward and says: “There were women, they were there, I knew them, their families put them in institutions, they were given electric shock. In the ’50s if you were male you could be a rebel, but if you were female your families had you locked up."
    — 

    Stephen Scobie, on the Naropa Institute’s 1994 tribute to Allen Ginsberg (via fuckyeahbeatniks) (via talkwordytome)

    (via literarymiscellany)