#NOETRY

[pareidolyeah]

Some responses require

One hundred NO’s in a row

Or higher.

[knitmeapony]

Tweet from Joseph Fasano: "An 8th-grade student of @MrsHult wrote this poem using one of my poetry prompts, and I just cannot get over that second line. ❤️ Emily, I hope the world sees your poem."

Poem in image:

Angels

Let the fears be short. Let the funerals be beautiful. Let every memory inside me find its way to the heart and walk carefully, slowly toward this world. I have a story I have never told: Once, when I was alone, I looked up at the sky and saw shadows of my family and I knew I was a girl made of angels. I am still a girl made of angels. -- Emily, grade 8

[notasapleasure]

from summer, somewhere by Danez Smith (Don't Call Us Dead, 2017)

[hello-delicious-tea]

I have this advertisement in my notes as a scrap for poetry inspiration, but honestly, I'm not sure I can improve upon the imaginative possibility already encapsulated in these words: Through Saturday, 4/11, LAST CHANCE 3lb package Italian/unmarked quality bees available 2/$250 and 3/$360. Pick up and pay!

[zmediaoutlet]

from Intercourse, by Robert Olen Butler

LUCREZIA

almost married to Valencia at age eleven, almost married to Naples at twelve, married to Milan at thirteen, a man of twenty-seven years with strong teeth and a limp member, and I wore red velvet trimmed in ermine and woven with gold thread, and when he was useless to the Borgia men -- as he was to me -- they could have slit his throat and thrown him into the Tiber and I would not have cried, but they simply annulled him and I was married at seventeen to Naples, to Alfonso of Bisceglie, who was seventeen, and we were one in mind and body as well as years and his skin smooth as Travertine marble and I wore black velvet and I was a night sky of rubies and diamonds and I wore a girdle of pearls and a diadem of chased gold, and when he was useless to the Borgia men -- though I loved him desperately still -- my brother had him stabbed and beaten and then my brother strangled him to death with his own hands, and today I wore a gown of gold with purple satin stripes and sleeves of ermine and a cloak of ermine and I give my body now to Ferrara and he is accustomed to whores and he is accustomed to artillery but he has taken me away from Rome at last, far away, far from Rome at last, and at last I no longer have to look on at the face of my father, the face of Christ's Church on earth, for my father took my body to himself when I was eight and in the dark he whispered You will always be married to me

ALFONSO

it is whispered in certain places that she poisoned the last one, some boy, and it is whispered she nightly fucks her father on the altar of St. Peter and it is whispered she had his bastard son, a creature with horns and a cloven hoof they had to burn at the stake before the sunset of its first day, but my father says she is a crucial alliance with Rome and she is the city of Cento and the city of Pieve and the harbor of Cesenatico and she is a dowry of a hundred thousand ducats and for these things she is not a murderer and she is not a slut for her father, and I did not truly know what she was until I rode out to her procession a day early and caught her just arrived for the night at Castel Bentivoglio and she came to me in the courtyard brushing the road dust from her riding dress and her golden hair was falling about her shoulders and she surely was unhappy at my seeing her for the first time like this and she lifted her long face to me and her pale blue eyes fixed on me and she smiled a smile like the muzzle flash of a cannon and I took her hand and bent low to kiss it and she whispered I am your wife and I knew that she was

[tangentofk]

i can't help but get mad

at the ways you speak to me

is it my own reflections

bouncing off echo chambers

How did communicating become so hard

How do I stop snapping

like a twig

under pressure created in crock pots

of forgotten recipes

I can hold my breath for so long

But when it comes to you

The waves collapse my diaphram

Into speechless tears

[shit-slonker]

local news stories got me thinking we aren't safe in buildings because a car hits one every other day not safe in cars because jesus h christ people can't drive not safe in the water because holy crap a lot people have been drowning around here lately safety is 25 feet above us or maybe it's actually six feet below heaven has got to be further above that and hell is surely not far below

[llamagoddessofficial]

My fellow Tumblrinas - I have a question, and a request!

I'm doing a poetry short film for my University project in a few months. My professor recommended utilising any "existing audiences" we may have - as my beloved existing audience, I figured I'd field it to you guys. If I posted a short 5-ish minute poetry film on YouTube, would you be open to watching it?

[ghostofasecretary]

OK it is Thursday

breakfast ✅️

clothes on your flesh ✅️

plan lessons ✅️

Staple Your Papers ✅️

pack food ✅️

leave house c. 7:55/8 ✅️

get to school, sign in, organize materials + get ready for the day ✅️

G1 ✅️

G2 ✅️

G3 ✅️

G4 ✅️

lunch ✅️

G5 ✅️

drive, park ✅️

prep for next lessons ✅️

G1 ✅️

G2 ✅️

attendance for the day ✅️

notes for the day ✅️

drive home ✅️

PRINT OFF HW FOR FRIDAY. or. check your email at the library and discover it is due next week. ok! ✅️

walk back ✅️

BONUS: MAKE PLANS WITH NEW FRIEND, WAHOO ✅️

call friend c. 4:30? ✅️

finish audiobook ✅️

decide: poetry or noetry tomorrow? either way SEND EMAIL ✅️

dinner ✅️

wash clothes

try to turn in early--well. this did not go well because i made a FEAST for dinner and was cleaning dishes till 10. but! i made a feast!! sweet potato flatbreads cooked dry in the skillet till crisp, rosewater rice pudding with cardamom and cinnamon, leftover dal (honestly one of my worst ever but it seemed fine on its own so maybe it just isn't pulling its weight in this vaunted crowd), and a mushroom curry with equal parts mushroom, tomato, and onion, 14 grams of ginger, and 28g of serrano. which is. a lot of serrano. apparently the average one is 7g. anyways. I AM WINNING AT FOOD AND I LOVE FOOD ALSO

[notasapleasure]

“Sssnnnwhufffffl? Hnwhuffl hhnnwfl hnfl hfl? Gdroblobblhobngbl gbl gl g g g g glbl. Drublhaflabhalflubhafgabhhafl fl fl - gm grawwwww grf grawf awfgm graw gm. Hovoplodok-doplodovok-plovodokot-doplodokosh? Splgraw fok fok splgrafthatchgabrlgabrl fok splfok! Zgra kra gka fok! Grof grawff gahf? Gombl mbl bl- blm plm, blm plm, blm plm, blp.”

—

The Loch Ness Monster’s Song, Edwin Morgan.

“The author explained in conversation that the lonely monster rises from the loch and looks round for the companions of his youth – prehistoric reptiles – and, finding nobody he knows, he descends again to the depths after a brief swearing session.  This was confirmed by a nine-year-old boy in a workshop, who said the monster was ‘looking for a diplodocus’.  When asked how he knew that, he said, ‘It says so.’  It does.”

(via the-library-and-step-on-it)

[stocky2016]

“Bad Poetry...Oh Noetry”...

I want to be better...

I want to be popular and liked...

I compose the letters into evocative words

but my message appears somewhat spiked.

“Message” and “meaning”

can always be confused

If too much figurative language

within my lines infused.

Who wants “metaphors”

“imagery” and all of that

It’s pretty, pretentious stuff anyway

If both the rhythm and tempo are flat.

As a poem, I need energy

not so sure about syllables and metre,

just a defined and pulsating rhythm

not a straight-jacket form, either.

I’m supposed to be “dark”

expecting that posting approval lark...

but I maybe am not quite good enough

for a Moderator to say “yes”.

I look around at the “competition”

and see some incredible writes

poetry with all the ingredients

quality at the loftiest literary heights.

I must also make sure any chosen

graphics meet Facebook “approval”

or run the risk of rejection

and in reality, FB web-site removal.

So to be a really good poem

there’s just so much to consider,

back to the drawing board I guess

din't want to feel second-rate, or a wordsmith quitter.

G.P.S. June 2021 (re-Edited 15th August 2022 and 30.12.23)

[knitmeapony]

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Amy Kay (@amykaypoetry)

[notasapleasure]

shaking my fellow poetry translators by the shoulders not so gently: you do not need to replicate the word order in the original. you do not need to hide the verb behind the adverb and the subject behind the verb because This is Poetry. what you are doing is an affectation in modern English, you're not translating a Victorian text, you're translating a normal word order in a different language so please please for the love of god use a normal word order in the translation

[hello-delicious-tea]

Sonnet #4: Horrible Fruit with Horrible Words

I found that figs are blooms, not fruit; we take and eat the buds before they burst. Their succulence and roundness soon transmute to tonguing shapes and tentacles; perversed symbolic sweetness, sex, fecundity, become a putrid, insect-liquefying maw: so much for Biblical profundity, when faced with the primeval carica. Perhaps we place an emphasis too strong on modern sensibilities for love; the pruning of the rose also belongs, as does the endless shitting of the dove. So give me eerie infructescences with fresh, melliferous tumescences.

(I'm quite tired and this is a bad poem about an Abomination)

[swingsdown]

a litany

a photo of the cat (ours, mine, really— seeing the flash of his eyes in the headlights;

picking him up in that dark parking lot; the way he’d howled that first night, 10pm to 3am, stroking the ruffled fur by myself, telling him that it would be alright because we would love him now)

now yours, now someone else’s

finding an old order confirmation for the little bar set i’d bought, a wedding gift with a tag that says from us

(“thank you, i can’t wait to use this with you”,

and now it’s someone else, now there is another conveniently timed, conveniently familiar person sitting on the couch we’d picked out,

the couch that we’ve fucked on, cried on, drinking out of the same glasses, using the plates that i hated because they were too heavy, that i bought anyways because you’d said you liked them) now no longer from us, now no longer—

i don’t want you. i don’t love you. i don't even like you.

but:

the cookbooks, the knives, the headphones, the sweaters,

the late nights with warm arms brutally bad volleyball games in the dark the home that i’d painstakingly built for myself;

i had to uproot myself with devastating force; why didn’t you?

why do you get to slide someone into my life my home mine mine mine so easily?

i want to walk the 900 odd miles back to you, so i could rip everything that i ever gave you, wipe every shred of influence, of goodness that i ever shared with you i want to tear that away until you hurt like i’d hurt i want you to beg, and just once, i want to take back the kindness, and leave you with even less than you’d left me.

[tangentofk]

Shrinking in the face

Like a microbe

Bisecting itself onto a new genesis

Shrinking in my heart

Like a raisin forgotten

Dehydrated beyond recognition

Shrinking in my eyes

Like myopic germs

Unable to look past himself

Shrinking

Shrinking

Shrinking