#the poem begins not where the knife enters but where the blade twists.

[typewriter-worries]

Concerning the Book That Is the Body of the Beloved, Gregory Orr

[joytri]

The poem begins not where the knife enters, but where the blade twists.

— Hanif Abdurraqib, from his poem ‘The Prestige’, published at Poets.Org

[killmeloveme]

KILL ME LOVE ME 春花焰 “the poem begins not where the knife enters but where the blade twists”

[sdktrs12]

– the poem begins not where the knife enters but where the blade twists.

[alwaysmorewords]

“The poem begins not where the knife enters, but where the blade twists.”

— Hanif Abdurraqib, from his poem ‘The Prestige’, published at Poets.Org

[fall3n1]

the poem begins not where the knife enters

but where the blade twists.

[projectorpheus]

VOSTOK ⋅𖥔⋅ 32, M ⋅𖥔⋅ LOGISTICS

trigger warnings: gore, murder

Some are born lucky, some are lucky to be born. You've never been under the delusion that you were anything more than the latter. Inconsequential surname, insignificant upbringing. Stale mediocrity clinging onto your every stride as you bruised your knees on cracked pavement just to watch the stars. The stars — who looked down at you with the grim set of their lips and upturned noses; who pointed at and ridiculed the boy who could only hold his hand out to try and catch a mere reflection of their light. Desperate, desperate. How beautifully they twinkled as they laughed. HOW YOU'D LIKE TO CUT THEM DOWN ONE BY ONE; have heaven hanging off its hinges, blood indistinguishable from sky in the dark of the night.

Your prayer was answered in the form of an apprenticeship under a manager at S Corp. They wanted a dog; a creature willing to bow in their loyalty, and you had long forsaken your pride for opportunity. When the manager hesitated, morals eating them up from the inside, as the algorithm meant to decide the fate of who would be chosen to live underground and who would be left to their death sat at their fingertips — IT WAS YOU WHO PRESSED THE TRIGGER. Without hesitation; without remorse. No matter that your own family was designated to starve aboveground. No matter that it would be your name forever written in the books as the knife responsible for slaughter. AS LONG AS IT'S YOURS.

How brightly do the stars dare to shine, now? You take your place among them — space left by the Princeling that thought himself too good to linger in corruption. Funny — you've never cared to be good. Only better. Only powerful. You take your place among them but you are not a star. Rather, you are a black hole. Unhinging its jaw, drawing in those who dare to disturb your orbit. They thought you would make a fine dog — you'll teach them a fear that silences the wolves.

DYNAMICS

HALIMEDE & PERDITA  ⋅𖥔⋅ I MAY BE TRYING TO DESTROY YOU IN ORDER TO LIVE. I MAY ONLY BE TRYING TO LOVE YOU.

TITANS. You watched them long before they knew your name. Their privilege; their pride. The way they laughed so freely, as if the world wasn't burning and greatness was a promise that had been made to them in god's own blood — the heirs of S Corp. So when FENRIR vacated his crown, you set it atop your head. No matter that it was made of thorns; no matter that it was not your name carved on the inside. You recognized their weakness almost immediately — the fickle PERDITA, so easily entranced by stories of growing up hungry. So desperately searching for a replacement of the friend that had left. You never lied, but you never corrected, either — you could see it in her gaze, the way she romanticized a life so different from her own. And why would you, when she foolishly paved the way for your ascent within the S Corp hierarchy? It was only HALIMEDE'S distrust that made you hesitate; that made you watch the shadows that followed your steps. Always half-lidded, drunk and erratic — but somewhere, a recognition. A barely concealed disdain. For now, you do nothing but grin back as you meet his eyes. It won't be long anyway. Before you gouge them out altogether.

MAINZER  ⋅𖥔⋅ THE POEM BEGINS NOT WHERE THE KNIFE ENTERS BUT WHERE THE BLADE TWISTS

They were your first taste of real power. You found them begging on the streets, searching for any spare crumb of food for their family. You recognized their desperation — you couldn't help but flinch away, confronted by the memory of yourself that you had worked so hard to destroy. SO YOU WOULD DISMANTLE THEM TOO; eradicating any semblance of your before. You offered their family safety — asking for their humanity in return. Is your sister worth your arm? How about your leg? You watched as they dismembered their own body; supplied them with the technology to stitch themselves anew. A machine of your own making.

FENRIR  ⋅𖥔⋅ THIS HAS NEVER BEEN ABOUT GOOD AND EVIL. THIS IS ABOUT POWER. WHO HAS IT, WHO DOESN’T. WHO KNOWS HOW TO USE IT.

They say you took his place; they say you're sitting on a chair that had been crafted for another. To put it frankly? You don't care. It's yours now, traded with your soul as a sacrifice. Yourself the devil, the judge, and the executioner. But you should have known better than to leave a loose end — even as he is nothing but a ghost of the past, having made the decision to roam aboveground in his sunlit glory, news still spreads of his conquests. Of the loyalty he inspires. While your presence conjures nothing but dread. It gnaws at you; this realization that you may wear his crown, but it will never truly fit. So you decide to forge yourself a new one — return what was his. If only to smash it and use its shards to carve him open.

TAKEN BY CAM ⋅𖥔⋅ PRANAV BHARGAV

[therevolutionaryg]

“the poem begins not where the knife enters but where the blade twists.”

[amatchboxheart]

every lover’s got a little dagger in their hand (fall out boy)

///

the poem begins not where the knife enters but where the blade twists (hanif abdurraqib)

[sarahyagh92]

“The poem begins not where the knife enters but where the blade twists.”

— Hanif Abdurraqib, from his poem ‘The Prestige’,

[typewriter-worries]

Gaslight, Tom Raworth

[ Text ID: poetry is neither swan nor owl / but worker, miner / digging each generation deeper ]

[nightshvdesblog]

The poem begins not where the knife enters but where the blade twists.

~Hanif Abdurraqib

[firstfullmoon]

the poem begins not where the knife enters but where the blade twists. Some wounds cannot be hushed no matter the way one writes of blood & what reflection arrives in its pooling. The poem begins with pain as a mirror inside of which I adjust a tie the way my father taught me before my first funeral & so the poem begins with old grief again at my neck.

— Hanif Abdurraqib, from “The Prestige”

[thedarkacademiastuff]

The poem begins not where the knife enters but where the blade twists.

- Hanif Abdurraqib

[yohankang]

the poem begins not where the knife enters but where the blade twists. - Hanif Abdurraqib, The Prestige

[wintryblight]

do you have any poems about writing?

hi anon! here are some poems about writing for you. enjoy reading!

Kaveh Akbar, “The Perfect Poem” | The perfect poem is light as dust / on a bat’s wing, lonely as a single flea.

Sarah Kay, “Jakarta, January” | tomorrow a sixth grade girl will come to class while her father has the shrapnel pulled from his body & maybe she will reach for poetry

Hanif Abdurraqib, “The Prestige” | the poem begins not where the knife enters / but where the blade twists.

June Jordan, “These Poems” | These poems / they are things that I do / in the dark / reaching for you

Keith S. Wilson, “I Find Myself Defending Pigeons” | You can never know a language until you quiet your own

Emily Berry, “from “Unexpected Time”” | It’s interesting how the poet keeps saying / that life is full of grief, grief, grief.

Jericho Brown, “Duplex” | A poem is a gesture toward home.