What was it I meant to tell you? … How the shore’s a huge armoire full of gowns, all its drawers packed and gleaming? Something about pleasure and excess: thousands of foamy veils, a tidal wrack of emerald, glamor of froth-decked, dashed pearl bits. A million earrings rinsed in the dawn.… Continue reading Mark Doty
As if one is a shadow stitched to the other, they sit, knees bent & parted, cradled in the basin of the clawfoot, her belly to his spine. She leans into him, her cheek resting against the blade in his back, & watches the window above the pull-chain warm from bath water to blue. He… Continue reading Meg Day
The most ordinary conversation is often the most poetic, and the most poetic is precisely that which cannot be written down. — Virginia Woolf, Orlando. (Penguin Classic; Abridged edition, October 3, 2000) Originally published October 11th 1928.
INDOORS the fire is kindled; Beechwood is piled on the hearthstone; Cold are the chattering oak-leaves; And the ponds frost-bitten. Softer than rainfall at twilight, Bringing the fields benediction And the hills quiet and greyness, Are my long thoughts of thee. How should thy friend fear the seasons? They only perish of winter Whom Love,… Continue reading Sappho
If there were a poetry where this could happen not as blank spaces or as words stretched like skin over meanings but as silence falls at the end of a night through which two people have talked till dawn — Adrienne Rich, from “Cartographies of Silence,” The Dream of a Common Language, Poems 1974-1977 (W.… Continue reading Adrienne Rich
Ode to the Beloved’s Hips Bells are they—shaped on the eighth day—silvered percussion in the morning—are the morning. Swing switch sway. Hold the day away a little longer, a little slower, a little easy. Call to me— I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock right now—so to them I come—struck-dumb chime-blind, tolling with… Continue reading Natalie Díaz
Autumn is the hardest season. The leaves are all falling, and they’re falling like they’re falling in love with the ground. ― Andrea Gibson, from “Photograph,” Pole Dancing To Gospel Hymns (Write Bloody Publishing, 2008)