#marianne boruch

[llovelymoonn]

favourite poems of october

alfred starr a dark dreambox of another kind: the poems of alfred starr: "didn't you ever search for another star?

stephen spender new collected poems: "auden's funeral"

marianne boruch keats is coughing

noa micaela fields zoeglossia: poem of the week, may 17, 2021: "echolalia"

kevin young diptych

richard siken real estate

crisosto apache kúghą/home

mikko harvey for m

nathan hoks nests in air: "the barbed wire nest"

john a. holmes noon waking

crisosto apache 37 common characterisi(x)s of a displaced indian with a learning disability

oliver de la paz requiem for the orchard: "at the time of my birth"

zhang xun jiangnan song (tr. bijaan noormohamed)

paul violi fracas: "extenuating circumstances"

tianru wang after "yellow crane tower"

lloyd schwartz cairo traffic: "nostalgia (the lake at night)"

kamiko han the narrow road to the interior: "the orient"

rigoberto gonzalez unpeopled eden: "unpeopled eden"

adelaide crapsey verse: "to the dead in the graveyard underneath my window"

chester kallman night music

alan shapiro covenant: "covenant"

tom clark light and shade: new and selected poems: "radio"

tc tolbert my melissa,

charlie smith in praise of regret

carolyn kizer cool, calm, and collected: poems 1960-2000: "fanny"

julie sheehan orient point: "hate poem"

arthur sze the redshifting web: poems 1970-1998: "streamers"

joumana altallal everything here...in the voice of tara fares

abid b al-abras last simile

w.s. merwin to lingering regrets

george scarbrough music

shout me a coffee

[violettesiren]

Most of the rooms muted by cold, and the furniture there with its human chill under vast drapes of plastic for the season—

Because eventually we are an austerity, walking room to room enamored and saddened, all the crazy variations of bed and table, clocks, books on a shelf, foreign harbors etched some yesterday, framed for a wall. And the effrontery of windows assuming how lovely out, a certainty of lawn and woods, distance on a road, voices that in summer drift up and move away.

Desire. That continues and continuing is the part loved just as there is emptiness with an occasion in it, clothes to remove before you ease into a bath.

Branches and branches scraping is winter. And after midnight, near morning when I stepped out, the moon by half, was it deer I saw? A little one and maybe its mother. Or they were smaller than deer. Or larger.

Oh but they were strange, stopped across the snow like that.

I Saw a House, a Field by Marianne Boruch

[womens-art]

Marianne Boruch, "A Tiny Pre-Kangaroo Slips Out Its Mother's"

[poem-today]

A poem by Marianne Boruch

A Musical Idea

At the second light, you turn, the boy tells me. I turn. A musical idea. Turn then, when a light in any house goes on.

Dark end of the day on the street. Dark late afternoon in November. In any kitchen—revealed: the hum

starts in the freezer, down the lower shelves, takes the stove back to its fire. The sink is an absence:

one tea-stained cup left to seed. I live somewhere. But to walk away is a musical idea. Because a corner means

make a profile to however once you were. Once a child, I kept turning full-faced into everything, never

saying a word. You like to think that, my brother says. I heard you plenty of times. And you were hiding.

Marianne Boruch

[murphycooper]

Isn’t bite also touch?

The Crane Wife - CJ Hauser / Cadaver, Speak, Marianne Boruch / Murmur, Cameron Barnett / “Interview with the Vampire” Season 2

[bluehandprint]

Supernatural 2x03 Bloodlust / Marianne Boruch, The No-Name Tapestries / James Lee Byars, The Halo, 1985 / Valerie Martínez, Absence, Luminescent / Supernatural 4x16 On the Head of a Pin

[geryone]

Hannah !! Give me some poetry collection recs <3 <3 your poetry taste is out of this world

Hi Cianna!!! Love you!!! ❤️ I feel like I tend to recommend the same collections over & over so I’ll try to stick to things I’ve read in the last couple months!

I really enjoyed these collections:

So to Speak by Terrance Hayes

Removal Acts by Erin Marie Lynch

Red Ocher by Jessica Poli

Gut by J. Bailey Hutchinson

Cadaver, Speak by Marianne Boruch

I also loved these collections that are coming out in the next couple months:

Origins of the Syma Species by Tares Oburumu (ADORED THIS)

The Palace of Forty Pillars by Armen Davoudian

Thick with Trouble by Amber McBride ( I’m not finished this one yet but I love it so far!!)

[padmeanddorme]

ooh, do you think I deserved it all?

ooh, your flowers filled with vitriol

you built me up

to watch me fall

you have everything

and you still want more

I try to be tough, I try to be mean

“I love you”

But even after all this, you're still everything to me

And I know you don't care

I guess that’s fine

~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~

credits: song lyrics from the grudge, by Olivia Rodrigo. gifs do not belong to me. post inspired by @cheesenames’ post (see here https://www.tumblr.com/cheesenames/764646844545531904/star-wars-episodes-i-iii-george-lucas-star)

[finishinglinepress]

FLP BOOK OF THE DAY: The Starlight Room by Lesley Valdes

On SALE: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/the-starlight-room-by-lesley-valdes/

The Starlight Room takes its title from the rooftop ballroom at the #Doral #Hotel in #Miami #Beach, where the poet’s father performed with his band. In her debut collection, “Valdes,” a trained classical pianist, and retired #music critic, considers the quotidian and exceptional encounters that inform a life. The opening poem, “Clewiston,” shows a father trespassing cane fields to let his children taste the sweetness. There are darker trespasses in these #meditations on #family, #loss, and #joy in which music is the through line, the ostinato. Reflections on Art Tatum, Beethoven, Schumann, Lorca; on a Chinese banquet, at the dog park, a tag sale, and at the keyboard. Poems to suggest the silences that infuse meaning; the mournful sweetness of touch that informs music and, as Anne Sexton wrote, always love.

Lesley Valdes, a classically trained pianist, comes to poetry following a career in arts journalism — as classical music critic for The Philadelphia Inquirer and for other national publications and media. She lives in Philadelphia where she is on the faculty of the Fleisher Art Memorial, an instructor of piano, and ardent guest speaker for the Philadelphia Chamber Music Society. This is her debut collection.

PRAISE FOR The Starlight Room by Lesley Valdes

In “The Pianist Speaks,” Lesley Valdes considers the accomplishment of Robert Schumann’s work. “Something in the inner voices in the middle register,” she reflects, “harmonies that reach don’t overreach / the way an ordinary life is lived.” These words stand equally as ars poetica for the poet’s work in this beautiful debut collection. In poems that richly evoke the lives of composers, musicians, beloved family members, and often both, music brims The Starlight Room, no less so in the moving resonances of her lines—vividly present, elegiac, and filled with quiet duende.

–Daniel Tobin, author of The Mansions

I already knew this much: that poet, pianist, and music critic Lesley Valdeshas an astounding ear for both silence and sound— “harmonies that reach don’t overreach”—but her eye is brilliantly at work in these pages too. Such images! Starlight from tiny bulbs, colors that infuse and explode in Miami, stills and movement from memory, its grief making joy possible. The great ones float here too—Beethoven’s counting out 60 beans for his coffee each day, Glenn Gould’s preferring Bach for his desert island. But also Tatum and Ellington, and the poet’s lost beloved father: “those feathery tones/that make you want to rush/to save them.” Early on, Valdes writes “I saw them again/ I thought it was a dream.” You know what? Happily for us, it is not. It is here for us to savor.

–Marianne Boruch, author of The Anti-Grief

The best poetry aspires to music, and Lesley Valdes‘s The Starlight Roomachieves that as do few others, by treating musical subjects and themes with a precise emotional delicacy. All blend seamlessly with her own experience through “harmonies that reach,” but “don’t overreach” and reveal the fullness of “a woman’s love and life.” Lesley Valdes has given us one of the best chapbooks I have ever read.

–Rodney Jones, author of Alabama

Please share/please repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #poetrybook #read #poems #music #MiamiBeach #Florida #life #love #family #loss #pianist

[reconstructionlegacy]

“What is dead may never die,” Theon said, remembering.

Theon I (A Clash of Kings), George R.R. Martin

When the chorus sing that the ‘name of the land will vanish’ and ‘Troy no longer exists’, they are singing for an audience for whom Troy’s name has survived.

P.E. Easterling, The Cambridge Companion to Greek Tradgedy

I begin with three ancient premises I almost believe. One: the dead move among us. Two: there is the thinnest veil between the things we see and the secret, heart-stopping place those images open to, and only image, the beloved particular, allows entry. Three: that hidden place is the source of poetry, of any art really, and tapping that requires two conflicting states of mind at once—vigilance and a kind of half-sleep, thinking and not thinking at all. I realize this sounds archaic and even unhinged, and that’s probably the best I can hope for.

Marianne Boruch, from Seeing Things, "The Little Death of Self" (University of Michigan Press, 2017)

I have written you down Now you will live forever And all the world will read you And you will live forever In eyes not yet created On tongues that are not born I have written you down Now you will live forever 

Poet, Bastille

One wants to tell a story, like Scheherezade, in order not to die. It’s one of the oldest urges in mankind. It’s a way of stalling death.

Carlos Fuentes

I think it’s because the minute they [poets] are dead all of their poems about death become poems about being alive.

Mary Ruefle, "Short Lecture on the Dead," Madness, Rack and Honey (Wave Books, 2012)

[violettesiren]

Last twilight, I pulled up withered stalks tomato and pepper, broccoli, squash threw them off toward the compost pile.

Dazed murmuring overhead, crackle of stem, whirl of sudden airborne root. It was half dark , it was a departing room and I was not

gentle, nor was I thinking about spring, some vague glad rejuvenation. None of that. I stood shadow and eater, eyeing one small squash

off the garden's edge, an afterthought of harvest stranded in the weeds. Carrots too, forgotten all summer, I coaxed them now into dim light: stubby creatures

alert in their brash color, even intelligent, as though they would walk a few inches for a joke if I asked. The moon stepped out—an awful

perfect lens. I stopped, then shredded off the leafy tops. I stuffed them cold into a basket. Behind some clouds, they stirred,

the elegant friends: planets, the old gods, death.

November Garden with Moon by Marianne Boruch

[womens-art]

Marianne Boruch, "Keats Is Coughing"

[inkandalchemy]

“Eventually one dreams the real thing.” - from Before and Every After by Marianne Boruch Day 9/100 #poetrymakesmehappy #leanintotheart #the100dayproject #readmeapoem (at Albuquerque, New Mexico) https://www.instagram.com/p/Cpc3fdsuBbd/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[llovelymoonn]

is it possible to rq a webweaving on wanting to be loved but not knowing how to properly feel it? tysm im advance

carl phillips wild is the wind: "the distance and the spoils" \\ marianne boruch keats is coughing \\ william steig \\ hélène cixous the love of the wolf (tr. keith cohen) \\ micah nemerever these violent delights \\ @ryebreadgf

kofi

[araekniarchive]

ahh!! ok can we have a web weave on violins and gifted kid pressure?? or a violin as a symbol of childhood greatness or something?? thank you sm ily <3

‘Yehudi Menuhin: The thrilling boy violinist who plays with confident brilliance’, The Guardian, first published 21st November 1932

Marianne Boruch, Rare Old Violins

Mark S. Joffe, Yehudi Menuhin

The Umbrella Academy (2019–), 1x10: The White Violin

Camilla Wicks, child prodigy and violin virtuoso, aged 6 (via) / Sarah Chang, child prodigy and violin virtuoso, photographed by Charles Abbott

Louisa May Alcott, Jo's Boys, and How They Turned Out

Nikki Wallschlaeger, Violin

[s-hodne]

WHAT GOD KNEW

Marianne Boruch when he knew nothing.  A leaflooks like this, doesn’t it?  No oneto ask. So came the inventionof the question too, the way all at heart are rhetorical, each leafsuddenly wedded to its shade. When God  knew nothing, it was better, wasn’t it? Not the color blue yet, its deep unto black.  No color at all really, not yet one thing leading to another, sperm to egg endlessly, thus…