#Mary Szybist

[geryone]

Incarnadine, Mary Szybist

[llovelymoonn]

mary szybist incarnadine: "touch gallery: joan of arc"

kofi

[derangedrhythms]

⁠— but how I wanted you.

⁠Mary Szybist, Granted; from 'Apology'

[poetrysmackdown]

[undinesea]

Here I am, having bathed carefully in the syllables of your name, in the air and the sea of them,

Mary Szybist, from Hail

[lillyli-74]

I had imagined death thrillingly.

~Mary Szybist

[fawnaura]

Wanting her was so close to prayer—

Mary Szybist, from Incarnadine: Poems; “Conversion Figure”

[milkymarble]

we’ve made it past the equinox, mold the day with your bare hands.

barbara crooker, anna akhmatova, mervyn peake, mary szybist, vedovamazzei

[dk-thrive]

This is what it's like to be alive without you here: some fall out of the world. I fall back into what I was. Days go by when I do nothing but underline the damp edge of myself. What I want is what I’ve always wanted. What I want is to be changed.

— Mary Szybist, from "To Gabriela at the Donkey Sanctuary," in Incarnadine: Poems (Graywolf Press; February 5, 2013) (via The Volta Blog)

[thensson]

I haven't given you what you need (i'm sorry)

Bloodsport, Yves Olade || Conversations Over Sanguinaccio Dolce, I.B. Vyache || Incardine, Mary Szybist || Richard Siken || Agua Viva, Clarice Lispector || Calling a Wolf a Wolf, Kaveh Akbar || Stay, Reynier Llanes || Underbelly, Nicole Homer

[geryone]

Granted, Mary Szybist

[llovelymoonn]

mary szybist on wanting to tell [] about a girl eating fish eyes

support me

[derangedrhythms]

How (Not) to Speak of God who has tried to reach us, who will do anything to reach us who is enough, who is more than enough who should be extolled with our sugared tongues who knows us in our burnished windshields as we pass who remembers the honey-colored husks of the locust who knows the scent of dust, the scent of each sparrow whose shadow does not flicker under streetlights who can feel without exaggerating anything who will care when the iridescent flies swarm toward us who shall be as the wings of the dove, its coppery shadows who waits in the midst of the mosquitoes who devoured the fruit of our ground, the skin of the overripe pears who saw the world incarnadined, the current flowing whose face is electrified by its own light who could be a piece of flame, a piece of mind shimmering who can feel without eroticizing everything who will pity us when the bees disappear into their shadows who loves the dank earth, its wolves and its tigresses

Mary Szybist, from 'Incarnadine'

[violettesiren]

When I see the bright clouds, a sky empty of moon and stars, I wonder what I am, that anyone should note me.

Here there are blueberries, what should I fear? Here there is bread in thick slices, of whom should I be afraid?

Under the swelling clouds, we spread our blankets. Here in this meadow, we open our baskets

to unpack blueberries, whole bowls of them, berries not by the work of our hands, berries not by the work of our fingers.

what taste the bright world has, whole fields without wires, the blackened moss, the clouds

swelling at the edges of the meadow. And for this, I did nothing, not even wonder.

You must live for something, they say. People don’t live just to keep on living.

But here is the quince tree, a sky bright and empty. Here there are blueberries, there is no need to note me.

Here, There Are Blueberries by Mary Szybist

[blogdemocratesjr]

Jeanne d’Arc by Antonin Mercié

Touch Gallery: Joan of Arc

The sculptures in this gallery have been carefully treated with a protective wax so that visitors may touch them.

—exhibitions, the art institute of chicago

Stone soldier, it's okay now. I've removed my rings, my watch, my bracelets.

I'm allowed, brave girl, to touch you here, where the mail covers your throat, your full neck, down your shoulders to here, where raised unlatchable buckles mock-fasten your plated armor.

Nothing peels from you.

Your skin gleams like the silver earrings you do not wear.

Above you, museum windows gleam October. Above you, high gold leaves flinch in the garden,

but the flat immovable leaves entwined in your hair to crown you go through what my fingers can't. I want you to have a mind I can turn in my hands.

You have a smooth and upturned chin, cold cheeks, unbruisable eyes, and hair as grooved as fig skin.

It's October, but it's not October behind your ears, which don't hint of dark birds moving overhead, or of the blush and canary leaves

emptying themselves in slow spasms into shallow hedgerows.

Still bride of your own armor, bride of your own blind eyes, this isn't an appeal.

If I could I would let your hair down and make your ears disappear.

Your head at my shoulder, my fingers on your lips—

as if the cool of your stone curls were the cool of an evening— as if you were about to eat salt from my hand.

Mary Szybist, "Touch Gallery: Joan of Arc" from Incarnadine

[lillyli-74]

Photography by Tom Jambon

There was something soft and moist about her, a dare, a rage, an intolerable tenderness.

~Mary Szybist