#rosanna warren

[luthienne]

rosanna warren, "eclogue" / wendell berry, "marriage" / ada limón, "the unbearable"

[cithaerons]

Rosanna Warren, Oranges

[szeptember]

WRESTLING WITH THE ANGEL

Louise Glück, Persephone the Wanderer / Tony Kushner, Angels in America, Part One: Millennium Approaches / Jürgen Ovens, Jacob Fighting the Angel / Hermann Hesse, Demian / Léon Bonnat, Jacob Wrestling the Angel / Rosanna Warren, Departure: Poems / x / Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice / Eugène Delacroix, Jacob Wrestling with the Angel / Belden C. Lane, The Solace of Fierce Landscapes: Exploring Desert and Mountain Spirituality / Alexandre-Louis Leloir, Jacob Wrestling with the Angel

[quillaffinity]

This Grief Like Fire - lio fotia web weave (promare)

---

i am burning

ive always, always burned. come, let me warm you for a while.

---

Promare is a film directed by Imaishi Hiroyuki and produced by Studio Trigger

ocean vuong / blue kid, “the dismemberment song” / promare / lloyd schwartz /  rosanna warren / promare / ocean vuong / dorothy parker / promare / clarice lispector / promare / ??? / promare / anton chekhov ( trans. hugh aplin), “uncle vanya” / promare / promare / promare /  franz wright / promare / björk / promare / yves olade / ??? / promare / moss angel

[a-ramblinrose]

“I boiled months of sunlight, trapped them in jars of apricot jam.”

― Rosanna Warren, from, 'Couple'

[finelythreadedsky]

Rosanna Warren, "Odyssey" (2006)

[sleepytimegal777]

1. The Triumph of Death - Rosanna Warren / 2. Gethsemane (I Only Want to Say) - Jesus Christ Superstar / 3. Deus Mortis - Mimi Evangeline / 4. Sun Bleached Flies - Ethel Cain

[fragbot]

This is Ancient Poetry  It’s supposed to repeat The living mangle the dead after they mangle the living It’s formulaic That’s how we love  It’s called compulsion  Poetry can’t help itself

- from "The Twelfth Day," Rosanna Warren (x)

[epigonoi]

[insilverrolled]

The Triumph of Death

By Rosanna Warren [x]

To Mary Sidney

In your lace ruff you resemble a giant snowflake or a spider web pearled with dew. What poets you catch

in your symmetries, at your long table at Wilton what wits (Spenser, Fulke- Greville, Drayton) pitch into the roasted

piglet, stewed apples, carp. If you rowzed God up, He knocked you back on your heels, Lady—

“O God, why hast thou thus Repulst, and scattred us?”—Through the high windows at Wilton seethe

rumors of battle, Philip’s pussing thigh, death in the Lowlands. Mother Wrong, Daughter Strife stalk the cities; still

you keep house with grammar, you salt the psalms for long preserving. “As smoke in wind, as wax at fire doth waste”

the unjust dissolve. Your stanzas stay, still sting the tongue. Dawn finds you kneeling on stone, calling

again the bleak God you believe will answer you. You mix medicines, you write

in invisible ink. But Time trumps Fame which undoes Death which masters Chastity and Love—which leaves

Eternity, your Master wrote, master of all. And like your lace, your lines shine, not pale, “but whitely,

and more whitely pure than snow on windless hill that flaking falls, as one whom labour did to rest allure.”

Translate us too, rough line by line, into your crystalline severe design.

[whisperthatruns]

Moment

When you turned to me---you in bed, still sleepwarm, against                                                                              the pillows, I across the room, skirt zipped, stockings on--- and you asked, so quietly,

“Was that a truthful answer?”

and outside our narrow third-storey window the Norway maple was poking odd thumbs into the sky and a skim milk early morning light leaked down the street, down front porch steps, around grimed collars of snowbanks, and the oval Victorian mirror of my dresser reflected all that, with odd angles and rooflines, gutters, chimneys                                                    jutting into its peripheral vision,

your question cut like a knife so sharpened it     slices clean and the surprised flesh doesn’t know for a moment                                                                                 how to bleed,

and I answered, after a pause in which the strangeness felt like a form of love,

“No.”

Rosanna Warren [citation unknown, text received in a craft talk led by Richie Hoffmann]

[luthienne]

Rosanna Warren, from Departure: Poems; "Diversion"

[cithaerons]

Rosanna Warren

[aleelewisharlot]

Turnus by Rosanna Warren

Not lion, not wind, not fire, not sacrificial bull, not in strength and sinew god- like, nor even as stag, Silvia's gentle one, tame, tower-antlered, awash in the sweet blood

of his groin where the Trojan arrow struck-- no beast, no simile, Turnus, but a man alone when your knees buckle and you look back at the ashen city, the girl with her eyes cast down,

away. You've crashed to your side, the spear has whispered its only message through the air. And when you speak, and He seems inclined to hear, it's the woods that reply, the shadowed hilltops near

and farther, and what they speak is a groan for a lost world, for leaflight, the childhood grove where the small stream stammered its rhymes in amber and green. And if He pauses? If His sword hovers above

your chest? Here's where you tear a hole in the poem, a hole in the mind, here's where the russet glare of ships aflame and the pyre and the amethyst gleam from the boy's sword belt rise and roil in a blur.

We are trapped in meanings that circulate like blood. the sword descends. And He who kills you is not a myth nor a city. His eyes searching yours could be a lover's eyes. It was love He fought.

[razorsadness]

Graffiti

Kitty Goes Kommando and the Goldman Rats — Phooey! That blue scaffolding holds up the sky. Who did we think we were padlocking in, or out? Give me that huge looping black script no one can read, a secret glyph, and just where someone has smashed the window, Jesus the Way the Truth the Life and a dented aluminum frame. He bent down, we know, and wrote something illegible on the ground. A toothy black-and-white dinosaur gapes. I like the crack in this wall of monsters where skylines topple and ogres twiddle train tracks in their claws like pipe cleaners. Down the long, semi-abandoned street in Queens calligraphy gallops toward the shop displaying, like guitar strings, seven different iron rods for gates. Hole in the wall, rose sound-hole, ribbed sounding board — always from fissures and gaps melody strains as trains thunderclank across the girdered overpass, a siren keens, and a solitary man ambles past amputated acacias fisting out with leaves.

—Rosanna Warren (Poetry, July/August 2014)

[nsantand]

Rosanna Warren - Lago

Você estava com água até as coxas e a luz verde refletia / nas cavidades dos seus quadris e no estômago, que é onde a chama piloto / ardia nas antigas estátuas de Dionísio, / e por um momento, enquanto você caminhava mais em direção ao fundo, (...)

Você estava com água até as coxas e a luz verde refletianas cavidades dos seus quadris e no estômago, que é onde a chama pilotoardia nas antigas estátuas de Dionísio,e por um momento, enquanto você caminhava mais em direção ao fundo, parecia queaquela água poderia lavar o pesode suas próprias estações e de doenças que não eram as suas: era uma caríciafria e infiel, que envolvia sua cintura,que a…