#poetry and conclusion

[sheriiam]

Premise

Poetry and Conclusion.

As Dolores kept on reading his namesake Shakespeare's works, William rested his head on his chin and looked at the poet.

"You never read Shakespeare, Ressy," William said, in a low yet clear and echoing voice.

"Get your premise right, mister logician. I do read Shakespeare. I just don't read it out to anyone. Well, not just anyone."

"Then to whom?" William asked, leaning forward to hear the answer.

"what absurd question. I'm reading it to you right now, aren't I? Who else happens to be present in this room?" Dolores said with a slight frown.

William chuckled. "Yes, but you said 'not just anyone.' You're implying that there is a category of people that you read it to. And I fall in that category."

Dolores waited. "So?"

"So I wish to know how you perceive this category of people. Who are they of yours? To you? Colleagues? Rivals? Family? Strangers―"

"Everything," Dolores said.

"Everything? Now you're being absurd, Ressy. No one can be everything to anyone. It's not practically possible. You're being poetic. I don't understand poetry―"

Dolores mumbled with a smile. "Yet you hear me recite."

"―give me something logical. What does it mean that someone's your everything? Are they the mother that gave you birth? The teacher who beat you? The villain who slit your throat? The lamp above your head? The book you hold? How are they your everything?

Dolores smiled. "Even with your logical cranium, you do understand a lot of poeticism, my friend. They aren't my mother to give me birth but they are the sun that gave me life, were I to imagine myself as a sapling. They are my teacher not since they beat me but since no one who stepped in my life walked out without teaching me something. They aren't my villain, but were they to become one, I'd chin up and look with pride at the ruins they created around me. I'd chin up and let them slit my throat."

"Dolores..." William whispered.

Dolores ignored that, even though hearing his own name had become a painfully heartwrencing activity. "The lamp that brightens my little world― ?" Dolores gestured around his library― "Why, yes, they are that. The innumerable words and phrases of love, solitude, desire, and pain bound in this book? Aren't- aren't people like that too, William? Aren't we all... books? And doesn't that really make you my...

William urged. "My what, Dolores?" he whispered. "Everything?"

Dolores shook his head with a smile. "No, just that."

[sivavakkiyar]

“The Exeter Book gives no authors and no titles to the 193 poems it now contains; nor are solutions given for the Riddles…Riddle 75 consists of a single line of verse: Ic ane geseah idese sittan. Literally construed, this reads: ‘I a single saw woman sitting’; the adjective ane (one) qualifies the noun idese (woman). My first translation of this read: ‘I saw a woman sit alone’. Initial vowels alliterate in Old English verse; ane and idese agree in sound as well as grammatically; both are in the accusative case.

Some scholars have thought this one-line riddle incomplete. It had no accepted solution. A woman might sit alone for various reasons. I received a postcard which suggested that the answer might be ‘A Hen’. Another reader wrote proposing ‘The Moon’, which was attractive, though Old English se mona is masculine. I remained undecided, assuming all the while that the woman must be the subject. She might be lonely, like the women who speak the Exeter Book poems Wulf and Eadwacer and The Wife’s Lament; or like the speaker of Ezra Pound’s version translated from the Chinese, ‘The Jewel Stair’s Greivance’. I was still looking in this direction when another postcard came with what must be the correct solution: ‘A Mirror’.”

—-Michael Alexander, The First Poems In English

[lena-oleanderson]

god - collected writings

from: side wounds | precious wound | stay away | against such things there is no law | shooting star

[horriblewithwords]

Perhaps we never deal with the problem, only find ways to distract ourselves from the pain.

[lickthecowhappy]

Ineffable Prompt-a-thon - Unfinished

Ineffable Prompt-a-thon Repository | Main Poetry List

My dear I wanted to-  It’s important, I fear- That is to say- I hope you’ll hear I love-

Ineffable Prompt-a-thon Repository | Main Poetry List

This poem is also available on AO3.

@ineffablyruined

Don't read the tags on this one. They're far too desperate.

[pluggedintosaverockandroll]

Gay Is Not A Synonym For Shitty: Blackout Poetry Version

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

I loved you that hurt let me see your lips pressed close True blue prince of a failing empire drive through the night Drive back home Things aren't the same I sleep with your old shirts it's strange I'm supposed to love you I've given up time is caution your shadows on the wall, I kiss them Things get so bad pick up the phone walk through this house you saved my life my heart my eye Photo-proofed kisses I remember it's strange I know to love you repeat

[sysig]

Hey, hey! RnR not requested! (Patreon)

[calamitys-child]

Something something the curtains are blue or whatever but underappreciated media analysis phenomenon is when someone else reads something you wrote and points out the blue curtains that you hadn't even noticed yourself hanging up while you built it. Like fuck they sure are I genuinely hadn't noticed I just flung em up I was concentrating on the carpet. Hey that shade of blue goes nice with the carpet huh. I should get more decor in that colour. Does this make sense to anyone

[poems-of-the-anentomologist]

Pride Poems Day #18 Theme: Agender

This poem is dedicated towards @leafgorge, a wonderful Agender Fellow and my sister in crime for this project

Broken Dawn

Fractured sun rising over a kaleidoscope sky A broken dawn over a patchwork world Made of stolen memories,

This isn’t our place

blue, pink, yellow, red broken machines broken things

Fragments of a metal world Dot the landscape

I’m grey, I’m not broken I don’t have their affliction

blue, pink, yellow, red broken machines broken things

A reminder of what could’ve been

[squishykitty825]

What is this feeling in my chest?

Why does it feel so tightly wound like the string on a guitar

It pinches my lungs

Making it harder and harder to breathe

Why can’t I just breathe deeper?

This tightness squeezes harder,

Bringing spots into my vision,

Matching my darting gaze and my fidgeting fingers

Can’t stop moving

Can’t stop twitching

Can’t breathe

Nothing feels right

Everything is wrong wrong WRONG

It won’t go away

This feeling

This endless

Pit

Of

Nerves

Help me

I want to whisper

Scream

Cry out

But I can’t

I’m stuck

Frozen in time and space

Waiting for this feeling to go away

Waiting

Waiting

Waiting

Waiting

[papastarion]

Astarion “I’m not one for literature” Baldursgate. Sir. You have a book in your hand literally every single second you’re at camp.

[thisismynarrative]

"So that the revolution does not completely rot I leave you with a message I am old And your utopia is for future generations There are so many children who will be born With a little broken wing And I want them to fly, comrade I want your revolution To drop them a piece of red heaven So that they fly." - Pedro Lemebel from A Last Supper of Queer Apostles

[goth-claudia]

I miss poetry

The words would flow from me like....

a warm summer day. Drowning in guitar and fuzz. Looking at the trees. a real voice. make me a real boy. stringing together just the right terms words something to create to feel to-

lose track of my own art is to lose my voice. Back in the tower. To find it again is like pulling teeth. Unnatural. Painful. Confusing. unoriginal and trite and deeply obvious and frankly embarrassing to think this could be moving-

out of bed and to the couch and back to bed with little inbetween. I scroll online and take none of it in. My thoughts are scattered and my sentences meaningless. The world is so cruel. I call doctors and call out of work and apologize again to my teachers as I spend hours a day doing anything but thinking-

that this could mean anything. The conceited heart of an artist. That your words change anyone but yourself. That they are missed. All artists think they matter and very few of them are right-

and left and right and left moving forward. my legs ache after five minutes of standing. my head swims and my vision becomes. strange. I should have the words, having the words is my only job. My doctor is concerned and everyone else seems mostly inconvenienced. I keep to myself. I search for a conclusion. I call my doctor again hoping to get an in person meeting this time. I go on my meds and go off my meds. I sleep again. October ends. The world moves on.

[thehumantrap]

This is it.

The sun shines dimly through the curtain into your bedroom window, your head still resting on his chest, your right arm wrapped around his gently heaving stomach. You haven't been this peacefully in love in years and yet here you are. You feel a deep longing inside of you, longing to feel him in this moment where he was still asleep and your mind was wide awake. Thinking of his body made you weak although you laid right on top of him. Thinking about how his heart beats, how his blood flows and how his breath rushes through his lungs feels ecstatic to you in this very moment. Your body heats up as your mind wanders to all the beautiful parts of his body, his soft hair, his glowing blue eyes, those delicate pink lips. That gorgeous, proud, strong chest in contrast to his sensitive rosy nipples, knowing each touch, each little kiss could make him moan sweet profanities if you want him to. Those big arms, sculpted just to hold you while they could just as easily destroy you by squeezing the life out of your lungs if he wanted to, sometimes you wish he would, oh how you wished he would.

But the most beautiful part of all are his hands. His large hands, built to hold you close, to keep you safe, to carress your skin, to wipe away tears from your cheeks and to pull you into his warm embrace. His big hands built just to hold your small ones, tiny even in comparison. You take his still sleeping arm, gently rubbing your cheek and lips along it, savoring every inch. You stop at his wrist, warm like the sun from his blood flowing where his arms and palms connect, you kiss along his veins, feeling the warmth of his blood pumping underneath his skin on your lips, making your heart beat faster. Rubbing your nose along his wrist up to his palm, you place tender kisses along his thumb and every crevice on his palms and fingers, wanting nothing more than to kiss them all your life. You turn his hand and hold it gently, tracing the veins on the back of it ever so slowly with your index finger, amazed by how all these little lines flow right through his body, making his heart beat, his lungs breathe and his mind love you. Each vein leads you along his fingers as you place kisses along each one before holding his hand close to your face and drifting off to sleep to his heartbeat again. This is it, you think, this must be it.

[everymanpdf]

i know that every time i write something for this professor i think it’s really bad and he loves it but this time i fear this is genuinely going to be really bad

[vibinsane]

honeydew.

the attention you give me i'm becoming greedy for it it's to the point i want to be like "please talk to me more" today you told me your favorite boba drink is honeydew it was so random and yet i smiled i want to try it now i want to learn more about you i want to talk to you more so i wish you didn't have to leave but i'm happy for you as well