#post-modern poetry

[uniguinflutist]

Yours truly has just recently appeared in this anthology with my poem, "Sausage Day In The Strip". Please consider buying it and supporting these amazing poets as well as me!

[poemsforwarriors]

yesterday i was the moon by Noor Unnahar #Poetry #AmReading

I am reading Noor Unnahar’s book of poems, “yesterday i was the moon” published in 2018 by Clarkson Potter/Publishers. I am enjoying the poetry so far, but I am “taking them slow.” Most of the poetry are free verse without punctuation or capitalization. Similar to the way I write most of my poems. I haven’t read any of Ms. Unnahar’s work previously, and while I do read a few books of poetry…

[fairuzfan]

[jetleparti]

Prometheus: Unbound 505 / Oil, acrylic, ink, graphite, & wax pencil on canvas. via Jet Le Parti archive.

[cryinginmelodrama]

Grief is a cruel promise. Everyone says it will get better, as if that’s some consolation, as if that’s not the greatest tragedy of all. Because one day, I’ll wake up, and the edges of this pain will be dulled. The world will turn a little softer, the weight on my chest a little lighter. And that feels like betrayal. It feels dishonorable to live in a world where the hurt doesn’t claw at my insides with the same ferocity. Because I’ll still be here, and they won’t, and it feels obscene to move forward when they cannot. I don’t want it to get better. I want this grief to linger, to carve itself into my bones, to nestle deep inside my chest, close to the heart that still aches for them. This pain is the last gift they left me; it’s the proof that they mattered. That they shook my world and left it unsteady, that they changed the shape of my days and nights. It’s the scar their love left behind, the tender reminder that I was once touched by a life that has slipped away. I’m in no hurry to be better. I want this ache to echo for as long as it can, like a name spoken into the wind, like a memory that refuses to fade. Because in this grief, I find traces of them still—teaching me in silence, guiding me through the darkness they left behind. It is a broken kind of wisdom, one that reminds me that to love is to lose and still reach out with trembling hands.

[coffeeandthoughtspoetry]

You didn't know me

and you fell in love with me

Now you know me

and you're... leaving

[pomegranateandcoffee]

Forough Farrokhzad poetry for today

[los3rmonologuee]

[fixing-bad-posts]

[Image description: A tumblr text-post, edited blackout-poetry style. Most of the text has been erased in black, leaving behind the letters "ily" repeated over and over again throughout the body of the post.]

---

ILY or ily ☆

abbreviation 1) I love you.

[got-ticket-to-ride]

Paul's lyrics from Here Today reminds me of Shakespeare's Sonnet 18 in a way that it immortalizes a loved one and the constancy of affection:

"And if I say I really loved you and was glad you came along

When you were here today

For you were in my song"

Sonnet 18 in modern English:

"And you will never die, as you will live on in my enduring poetry.

As long as there are people still alive to read poems this sonnet will live, and you will live in it."

[we-are-ignited]

I love you web-weaving I love you poetic polls I love you text posts with thematic reblogs I love you hardcore internet quotes that seem like they should be from classic literature I love you modern, internet age art that encapsulates the interactive nature of the internet itself while making classics interactive

[kiwifrowner]

I want nothing. I want nothing. I want nothing while i go and grope on the memory, but i scream that i don't want to make a home. Shame should crawl underneath my skin, shouldn't it? It doesn't. I do that alchemy to myself

— muffinsincoffin, "a wolf talk with me"

[inkedwingss]

Inspiration dies, it bows to my feet—not as a knight, but as dried and tired flowers. Tired to live! Tired of the water. Tired of looking pretty—exhausted of colours. It's autumn in my soul! Monthly cycles are old, I should learn to love yearly cycles, seasonal creativeness, aligning myself with God's calendar kept by the moon and the feasts and the holidays and the rest He created. The Designer of the universe has an eternal, perfect schedule. Would it be wise for me to stretch my spirit beyond the infinite knowledge that orders all things? Even my molecules? In who's time am I living in? This rush never ceases to disturb me. In distress, I look at the leaves. In the ground, they follow the command: shhh, time to go to sleep!

[wendydarling24]

breathing used to be easy

something i did naturally

didn’t even had to concentrate

now it’s all i can focus on

because everything is fucking suffocating me

i have hands around my throat

invisible hands

squeezing it

choking me

fucking choking me

and i

can’t

breathe

every plus task

every time i have to leave my room

makes the hands even tighter

more suffocating

day

after

day

and i just want it to

end

i just want to fucking

breath

[opheliasnotdead]

My brother

does not yet know

the difference

between a verb

and a noun,

His small hands

still too unsteady

to guide a borrowed

#2 pencil into

neat, even

lines.

But the haphazard

geometry

of desk against chair,

the panicked architecture

of classroom furniture

against flimsy wooden

doors,

He has studied

since his stumbling

school entry.

He performs

for me,

a quick drop to the ground,

fingers interlacing

against the baby soft

curls

I once cupped as I pressed

a warm bottle

to his lips,

"This is how we cover

our heads,

sister,

Look how fast

I can hide,

aren't I good?"

The display

shivers

with the same childish

excitement

I trembled with

reciting kinder-class

rhymes

to my long suffering

parents.

He does not understand

the horror

that has frozen my coffee cup's

ascent,

shows me

again

how quickly

his wounded animal scramble

can shield him

beneath my kitchen

chair.

When I hug him,

his skinny limbs

crushed too tight

in my grip,

he only laughs.

I am only silly big sister

to him,

and this is just

a game.

I watch him tumble

gap-toothed and fearless

onto the bus,

and grasp

for the threads of a now

dusty faith.

He does not remember

a time before

the drills,

has never wrapped his lips

around the

the bloody syllables of

'Uvalde.'

My strained prayers

were once for his success,

to watch him grow

in weedy loops from irritating

boy

to

educated man.

Now

I pray only

that my toothpick brother

lives.

[cryinginmelodrama]

My mother loves like she has time enough to wait. Like every touch, every drop of water is a promise, and she’s never been one to break those. I watch her kneel over a dying plant, whispering life back into leaves that have forgotten what green feels like. Two and a half years, she spends with her hands in the soil, her fingers damp and stubborn. I watch her love it to life, pouring herself into something that may never flourish, that takes its time unfolding, that tests her patience. Yet, she stays. It grows. She was right. And I see her do the same with us, my siblings and me, her marriage, the quiet stitching of her care that never comes undone, no matter how tired she gets. She’s there, persistent, her love a soft hope that time cannot hurry or erode. It settles in the cracks and stays, not because it is easy, but because she chooses it, chooses us, over and over again. I stand at the far end of her kind of love, arms crossed, ready to retreat when it is not returned to me in full. I crave immediacy, a reflection that gives back in equal measure or not at all. If I give, I want the return to land as swiftly as a thrown stone. But her love, her love bends towards things and waits for them to bend back. I wonder if mine is weaker, or if it is just different. I wonder if loving so conditionally makes me lose something that she gains with every slow, steady act of devotion. So, I keep watching, learning what it means to love without keeping score, to stretch one’s heart across time and not demand anything back, just let it grow, however slowly. And I wonder if I will ever learn to love like that. If there is wisdom in it, or just a quiet kind of bravery.