#hammond b3 organ cistern

[drizzlingrain]

via readalittlepoetry.com

[parme-san]

the days i want to kill myself are awful. just dogshit. Nothing like bright blue fucking sneakers.

[haveyoureadthispoem-poll]

"The days i don't want to kill myself are extraordinary. Deep bass."

Read it here | Reblog for a larger sample size!

[wellconstructedsentences]

I did not want to die that day. Oh, my God. Why don't we talk about it? How good it feels. And if you don't know then you're lucky but also you poor thing. Bring the band out on the stoop. Let the whole neighborhood hear.

Hammond B3 Organ Cistern by Gabrielle Calvocoressi

[landscaping-your-mind]

making the poetry anthology for my sister is like okay one poem about being trans from tumblr, one poem about not being suicidal anymore, one poem about being suicidal but like mothcore, one poem with anti-war messaging

[thesamestarlight]

OH. BRING THE BASS BACK.

[firstfullmoon]

If The Two Headed Calf Or The Orange Wins The Tumblr Poetry Smackdown I Will Kill Myself In Front Of You To Forever Change The Trajectory Of Your Lives

[hillhousebi]

what’s everyone’s favorite poem btw

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

I thought you might like to know but bring the bassist back is like about two things it's a reference to "bring the bass back" from the poem Hammond B3 Organ Cistern about finding joy in the days you don't want to kill yourself and it's also about how I think all the time about like the 27 club and how the tortured artist who dies young is such an image but like they don't have to and in our generation of music it seems like more and more of them survived it's like a fob reference: bring the bassist back because he didn't kill himself that's not the only way for it to go anyway ily

I was literally shaking restraining myself from talking about this in the tags like. hum fucking hallelujah, bring the bassist back. and not even just FOB though like. you're the resident MCR girlie. do you ever think about how by all rights they should not be alive? but they ARE. um like... like frickin... I am not afraid to keep on living. sending my love from the other side of the apocalypse. I'm going to cry about this Gracie

[partiallithopseffect]

[ID:

For Cas

I want to build a house with you more often than I want to die: cooking stove, red pot, pine tree. I want to assemble a bookcase, I want - my books & your books, all in the same place. I want the grey in your hair, the one you hate so much. The laugh lines you so deeply dread. I want a dog, & a cat, & your horses Cottage by the edge of town, like in that silly movie we watched for Christmas. Let's imagine it still snows somehow. Let's keep dreaming for a few months Starting off years with twelve kisses & counting roses for Valentine's Day. One for each time you've made my heart somersault. Room flooded, & you in the middle & because I want so much — endless mornings fresh flowers, drunk walk home — & because, for some unknown miracle, you want so too, I leave the pills in their bottle I empty the bathtub, I put down the knife, I make my bed wait for you to call me back. I decide I don't want to go without the mariachi band, without the twinning I do, without your hand in my hand. Because I sleep with your t-shirt under my head, even when we fight. Because you love the worst versions of myself. Because when I do leave, I want to be certain I'll find you again & again, patiently waiting, a breeze through the trees, sunlight on my fingers, grass under my skin.]

I want to build a house with you more often than I want to die, Dante Émile

[castrotophic]

not sure if anyone is interested in this but here is a list of the most joyfully vital poems I know :)

You're the Top by Ellen Bass

Grand Fugue by Peter E. Murphy

Our Beautiful Life When It's Filled with Shrieks by Christopher Citro

Everything Is Waiting For You by David Whyte

Lawrence Ferlinghetti Is Alive! by Emily Sernaker

Instructions for Assembling the Miracle by Peter Cooley

Catalogue of Unabashed Gratitude by Ross Gay

Barton Springs by Tony Hoagland

Footnote to Howl by Allen Ginsberg

Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman

Tomorrow, No, Tomorrower by Bradley Trumpfheller

At Last the New Arriving by Gabrielle Calvocoressi

To a Self-Proclaimed Manic Depressive Ex-Stripper Poet, After a Reading by Jeannine Hall Gailey

In the Presence of Absence by Richard Widerkehr

Chillary Clinton Said 'We Have to Bring Them to Heal' by Cortney Lamar Charleston

Midsummer by Charles Simic

Today by Frank O'Hara

Naturally by Stephen Dunn

Life is Slightly Different Than You Think It Is by Arthur Vogelsang

Ode to My Husband, Who Brings the Music by Zeina Hashem Beck

The Imaginal Stage by D.A. Powell

Lucky Life by Gerald Stern

Beginner's Lesson by Malcolm Alexander

Presidential Poetry Briefing by Albert Haley

A Poem for Uncertainties by Mark Terrill

On Coming Home by Lisa Summe

G-9 by Tim Dlugos

Five Haiku by Billy Collins

The Fates by David Kirby

Upon Receiving My Inheritance by William Fargason

Variation on a Theme by W. S. Merwin

Easy as Falling Down Stairs by Dean Young

Psalm 150 by Jericho Brown

Pantoum for Sabbouha by Zeina Hashem Beck

ASMR by Corey Van Landingham

A Welcome by Joanna Klink

From Blossoms by Li-Young Lee

At Church, I Tell My Mom She’s Singing Off-Key and She Says, by Michael Frazier

Hammond B3 Organ Cistern by Gabrielle Calvocoressi

Sorrow Is Not My Name by Ross Gay

You Can't Have It All by Barbara Ras

We Were Emergencies by Buddy Wakefield

To the Woman Crying Uncontrollably In the Next Stall by Kim Addonizio

Monet Refuses the Operation by Lisel Mueller

[metamorphesque]

🌼 poems (and a love letter) that helped me live through july 🌼

One Or Two Things, Mary Oliver

Kitchen Song, Laura Kasischke

The Breathing, Denise Levertov

Trapped, Charles Bukowski

Precognition, Margaret Atwood

Rain, John Burnside

Looking, Walking, Being, Denise Levertov

At Joan's, Frank O'Hara

You, Carol Ann Duffy

Time, Louise Gluck

Effort at Speech Between Two People, Muriel Rukeyser

Still, A. R. Ammons

Sonnet XL, Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sonnet XLIII, Edna St. Vincent Millay

Listen, W. S. Merwin

A Thin Line, Ryuichi Tamura (translated by Samuel Grolmes and Yumiko Tsumura)

Driveway, Richard Siken

The Sentence, Anna Akhmatova

Wanting to Die, Anne Sexton

Eating Together, Kim Addonizio

The Look, Sara Teasdale

The Starry Night, Anne Sexton

Hammond B3 Organ Cistern, Gabrielle Calvocoressi

Richard Feynman's love letter to his deceased wife, 1946

[solreefs]

“Hammond B3 Organ Cistern” by Gabrielle Calvocoressi, 2018.

[landscaping-your-mind]

Hammond B3 Organ Cistern

The days I don’t want to kill myself

are extraordinary. Deep bass. All the people

in the streets waiting for their high fives

and leaping, I mean leaping,

when they see me. I am the sun-filled

god of love. Or at least an optimistic

under-secretary. There should be a word for it.

The days you wake up and do not want

to slit your throat. Money in the bank.

Enough for an iced green tea every weekday

and Saturday and Sunday! It’s like being

in the armpit of a Hammond B3 organ.

Just reeks of gratitude and funk.

The funk of ages. I am not going to ruin

my love’s life today. It’s like the time I said yes

to gray sneakers but then the salesman said

Wait. And there, out of the back room,

like the bakery’s first biscuits: bright-blue kicks.

Iridescent. Like a scarab! Oh, who am I kidding,

it was nothing like a scarab! It was like

bright. blue. fucking. sneakers! I did not

want to die that day. Oh, my God.

Why don’t we talk about it? How good it feels.

And if you don’t know then you’re lucky

but also you poor thing. Bring the band out on the stoop.

Let the whole neighborhood hear. Come on, Everybody.

Say it with me nice and slow

   no pills  no cliff  no brains onthe floor

Bring the bass back.   no rope  no hose  not today, Satan.

Every day I wake up with my good fortune

and news of my demise. Don’t keep it from me.

Why don’t we have a name for it?

Bring the bass back. Bring the band out on the stoop.

Hallelujah!

Hong Kong

When I didn’t know how to live

I became my grandmother:

opening windows in the morning

early enough to see the light

sifting between the curtains, I

swept the floor with a bamboo broomstick

and made breakfast

And in my head came her raspy

voice and her soft voice and her

quiet voice; which rarely laughed but was

always delighted with living and

eighty years of reticent habits

cultivated by her small hands.

She had not always been loved, so

she knew all about love.

And on days which were longer and longer still,

on returning home to an empty apartment

in that spectacular city — her voice

emanated like bells.

You must be hungry, she said, looking over

at what I was cooking. And I laid my head

in the lap of her voice, nodding.

I am, I am.

[laciere]

The days I don’t want to kill myself are extraordinary. Deep bass. All the people in the streets waiting for their high fives and leaping, I mean leaping, when they see me. I am the sun-filled god of love. Or at least an optimistic under-secretary. There should be a word for it. The days you wake up and do not want to slit your throat. Money in the bank. Enough for an iced green tea every weekday and Saturday and Sunday! It’s like being in the armpit of a Hammond B3 organ. Just reeks of gratitude and funk. The funk of ages. I am not going to ruin my love’s life today. It’s like the time I said yes to gray sneakers but then the salesman said Wait. And there, out of the back room, like the bakery’s first biscuits: bright-blue kicks. Iridescent. Like a scarab! Oh, who am I kidding, it was nothing like a scarab! It was like bright. blue. fucking. sneakers! I did not want to die that day. Oh, my God. Why don’t we talk about it? How good it feels. And if you don’t know then you’re lucky but also you poor thing. Bring the band out on the stoop. Let the whole neighborhood hear. Come on, Everybody. Say it with me nice and slow    no pills  no cliff  no brains on the floor Bring the bass back.    no rope  no hose  not today, Satan. Every day I wake up with my good fortune and news of my demise. Don’t keep it from me. Why don’t we have a name for it? Bring the bass back. Bring the band out on the stoop. Hallelujah!

-"Hammond B3 Organ Cistern" by Gabrielle Calvocoressi

[havingapoemwithyou]

hammond B3 organ cistern by Gabrielle Calvocoressi