#rebecca lindenberg

[apoemaday]

Litany

by Rebecca Lindenberg

O you gods, you long-limbed animals, you astride the sea and you unhammocked in the cyprus grove and you with your hair full of horses, please. My thoughts have turned from the savor of plums to the merits of pity — touch and interrupt me, chasten me with waking, humble me for wonder again. Seed god and husk god, god of the open palm, you know me, you know my mettle. See, my wrists are small. O you, with glass-colored wind at your call and you, whose voice is soft as a turned page, whose voice unrolls paper, whose voice returns air to its forms, send me a word for faith that also means his thrum, his coax and surge and her soft hollow, please — friend gods, lend me a word that means what I would ask him for so when he says: You give it all away, I can say: I am not sorry. I sing.

[firstfullmoon]

Rebecca Lindenberg, “The Splendid Body”

[havingapoemwithyou]

the splendid body by Rebecca Lindenberg

[potatoesandsunshine]

[byzantinia]

( 074 )

I am a fragment of us. I am a fragment composed / of fragments. Mosaic, pastiche, ruin. / … all associated. Parts suggesting the whole / they long to be gathered into.

( REBECCA LINDENBERG )

[wordsthatkeepmyfeetdry]

Marblehead by Rebecca Lindenberg

[hautlesmasques]

"The mask that burns like a violin, the mask that sings only dead languages, that loves the destruction of being put on. The mask that sighs like a woman even though a woman wears it. The mask beaded with freshwater pearls, with seeds. The plumed mask, the mask with a sutured mouth, a moonface, with a healed gash that means harvest. A glower that hides wanting. A grotesque pucker. Here’s a beaked mask, a braided mask, here’s a mask without eyes, a mask that looks like a mask but isn’t—please don’t try to unribbon it. The mask that snows coins, the mask full of wasps. Lace mask to net escaping thoughts. Pass me the rouged mask, the one made of sheet music. Or the jackal mask, the hide-bound mask that renders lovers identical with night."

Rebecca Lindenberg, Carnival (Love, an Index)

[cosmicodysseys]

I think there is a general misconception that you write poems because you “have something to say.” I think, actually, that you write poems because you have something echoing around in the bone-dome of your skull that you cannot say. Poetry allows us to hold many related tangential notions in very close orbit around each other at the same time. The “unsayable” thing at the center of the poem becomes visible to the poet and reader in the same way that dark matter becomes visible to the astrophysicist. You can’t see it, but by measure of its effect on the visible, it can become so precise a silhouette you can almost know it.

[llovelymoonn]

favourite poems of february

avery r. young peestain

claudine toutoungi future perfect

david rivard bewitched playground: "not guilty"

brian kim stefans the future is one of place

lisa gill post-traumatic rainstorm

clare pollard pinocchios

rebecca lindenberg love, an index: "catalogue of ephemera"

etel adnan the arab apocalypse: "xxxvi"

stanley moss god breaketh not all men's hearts alike: "a blind fisherman"

robert browning an epistle containing the strange medical experience of karshish, the arab physician

tom sleigh beirut tank

khaled mattawa ismailia eclipse: "date palm trinity"

mark levine unemployment (3)

lucia cherciu butter, olive oil, flour

reginald shepherd fata morgana: "you, therefore"

john updike claremont hotel, southwest harbour, maine

bruce smith the other lover: "february sky"

johnny cash forever words: the unknown poems: "don't make a movie about me"

eamon grennan what light there is & other poems: "jewel box"

eduardo c. corral in colorado my father scoured and stacked dishes

thomas mccarthy the beginning of colour

divya victor curb: "blood / soil"

henneh kyereh kwaku in praise

joanna fuhrman to a new era: "lavender"

rosemary catacalos sight unseen

sam willetts digging

megan fernandes winter

jaswinder bolina the plague on tv

juan felipe herrera notes on the assemblage: "almost livin' almost dyin'"

kofi

[3416]

1634 + shared dreams

Credits: Marina Tsvetaeva | Mark Blinch | Behind the Maple Leafs’ franchise-changing draft selection of Mitch Marner | Matthews: It's a dream come true | Rebecca Lindenberg, “Love, An Index” | NHL: Auston Matthews was born for this | Marner on wanting to continue playing for the Maple Leafs | H.G. Wells, The Time Machine over Lee Balterman, Steve Russell | The Hockey News over Steve Russell | Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena over Kevin Sousa (1) (2) | Leaf's (former) goal song: You Make My Dreams by Hall & Oates | TSN Unique Opportunity graphic | Jeff O'Neill on TSN The Quiz Panel | Two young Leafs join a pair of all-time Leaf greats | Hall & Oates again | Matthews thrilled to be committed to Maple Leafs | Kevin Sousa | Mitch Marner has another gear in him. | Frank Bidart, “To the Dead” on Mark Blinch (1) (2) (3) | Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart | Mark Blinch

[apoemaday]

Poetic Subjects

by Rebecca Lindenberg

The capital city. Arrowroot. Water-bur. Colts. Hail. Bamboo grass. The round-leaved violet. Club moss. Water oats. Flat river-boats. The mandarin duck.                         — The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon

The sky. And the sky above that. The exchange of ice between mouths. Other people's poems. My friend says we never write about anything we can get to the bottom of. For him, this is a place arbored with locust trees. For me, it's a language for which I haven't quite found the language yet. The dewy smell of a new-cut pear. Bacon chowder flecked with thyme. Roasted duck skin ashine with plum jam. Scorpion peppers. Clothes on a line. A smell of rain battering the rosemary bush. The Book Cliffs. Most forms of banditry. Weathered barns. Dr. Peebles. The Woman's Tonic, it says on the side, in old white paint. The clink of someone putting away dishes in another room. The mechanical bull at the cowboy bar in West Salt Lake. The girls ride it wearing just bikinis and cowboy hats. I lean over to my friend and say, I would worry about catching something. And he leans back to say, That's really the thing you'd worry about? We knock the bottom of our bottles together. How they talk in old movies, like, Now listen here. Just because you can swing a bat doesn't mean you can play ball. Or, I'll be your hot cross if you'll be my bun. Well, anyway, you know what I mean. Somewhere between the sayable and the unsayable, poetry runs. Antidote to the river of forgetting. Like a rosary hung from a certain rearview mirror. Like the infinite rasp of gravel under the wheel of a departing car.  Gerard Manley Hopkins's last words were I'm so happy, I'm so happy. Oscar Wilde took one look at the crackling wallpaper in his Paris flat, then at his friends gathered around and said, One or the other of us has got to go. Wittgenstein said simply, Tell all my friends, I've had a wonderful life.

[awsok]

sabine wren (and shin hati)

dreams of clytemnestra, dacia maraini / ahsoka, ‘master and apprentice’ / ahsoka, ‘master and apprentice’ / dreams of clytemnestra, dacia maraini / terrible thing, ag / ahsoka, 'fallen jedi' / the perjured city, hélène cixous / ahsoka, 'fallen jedi' / machineryangel / ahsoka, 'dreams and madness’ / love, an index, rebecca lindenberg

[mehreenkhan]

Coffee is the sound of taste, a sound for the aroma. It is a meditation and a plunge into memories and the soul.

(from Mahmoud Darwish's Memory for Forgetfulness)

Coffee should not be drunk in a hurry. It is the sister of time, and should be sipped slowly, slowly.

(from Mahmoud Darwish's Memory for Forgetfulness)

I only believe in the easy things,

like red lipstick and coffee before noon and writing essays in pen.

(from Kristina Haynes, Self-Portrait at Twenty-One)

They can aim sea, sky, and earth at me, but they cannot root the aroma of coffee out of me.

(from Mahmoud Darwish's Memory for Forgetfulness)

I think we all speak a different kind of language than each other,

but you sound a whole lot like coffee on a Sunday morning and the rain is falling bitter against the windowpane.

(from Shinji Moon's He Loves the Rain)

You give me an apartment full of morning smells-

toasted bagel and black coffee and the freckled lilies in the vase on the windowsill.

(from Rebecca Lindenberg's Catalogue of Ephemera)

Making Coffee

Excerpts taken from trivarnahariharan_poetry on Instagram

[terrainofheartfelt]

A Dair Moodboard

—Rebecca Lindenberg, "Marblehead"

[wordsthatkeepmyfeetdry]

On Safety by Rebecca Lindenberg

[quillaffinity]

“be not afraid [but don’t come any closer]” -  AkiAngel Web Weave (CSM Spoilers)

i thought i’d die by bullet or blade, fang or claw, fire or flood. but

you are kinder, softer, and mine alone - touch me, i am ready to receive you

===

Chainsaw Man is written and drawn by Fujimoto Tatsuki

chainsaw man / frances molina, “o’ death” / chainsaw man / agustín gómez arcos, “the carnivorous lamb” / yves olade, “cut” / chainsaw man / sarah kane / chainsaw man / marie howe /  ainslie hogarth, “motherthing” / trista mateer / chainsaw man / leslie feinburg / françois mauriac, (tran. gerard hopkins), “the loved and the unloved” / chainsaw man / chainsaw man / rebecca lindenberg, “love, an index” / ??? / natalie young, “notes on earth life” / chainsaw man / jean-paul sarte, “no exit” / federico garcía lorca, “blood wedding and yerma” / jane austen, “pride and prejudice” / chainsaw man / chainsaw man / banana yoshimoto, “the lake” / madeline miller, “the song of achilles” / chainsaw man / ???