American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Confessional · Contemporary · Poetry

Kim Addonizio

Stolen Moments | What happened, happened once. So now it’s best in memory—an orange he sliced: the skin unbroken, then the knife, the chilled wedge lifted to my mouth, his mouth, the thin membrane between us, the exquisite orange, tongue, orange, my nakedness and his, the way he pushed me up against the fridge— Now… Continue reading Kim Addonizio

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Anthology · British Culture · Classic · Collection · English Literature · Excerpt · Fragment · Passage · Poetry

Philip Larkin

Admitted: and the pain is real. But when did love not try to change The world back to itself—no cost, No past, no people else at all— Only what meeting made us feel, So new, and gentle-sharp, and strange? — Philip Larkin, from “When first we faced, and touching showed,” Philip Larkin: Collected Poems, ed.… Continue reading Philip Larkin

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Poetry · Collection · Anthology · Classic · The Beat Generation · Contemporary · American Literature · Black Mountain Poetry · Compilation · American Counterculture

Robert Creeley

There is that in love which, by the syntax of, men find women and join their bodies of their minds —which wants so to acquire a continuity, a place, a demonstration that it must be one’s own sentence. — Robert Creeley, “The Sentence,” The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley, 1945-1975 (University of Californina, 1982)a

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American Culture · American Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Poetry · Uncategorized

Noelle Kocot

“You” have transformed into “my loss.” The nettles in your vanished hair Restore the absolute truth Of warring animals without a haven. I know, I’m as pathetic as a railroad Without tracks. In June, I eat The lonesome berries from the branches. What can I say, except the forecast Never changes. I sleep without you,… Continue reading Noelle Kocot

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Canadian Culture · Canadian Literature · Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Elegy · Poetry

Steven Heighton

So her ceiling a map of stars. First time we made love late afternoon late winter, and after she slept how her room fogged up with dusk and paper stars she’d stuck up there in childhood came out in strange constellations and I missed the earth till her room was night her breath deepening the… Continue reading Steven Heighton

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