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#Linda Pastan
firstfullmoon · 17 hours ago
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I want to write you a love poem as headlong as our creek after thaw when we stand on its dangerous banks and watch it carry with it every twig every dry leaf and branch in its path every scruple when we see it so swollen with runoff that even as we watch we must grab each other and step back we must grab each other or get our shoes soaked we must grab each other
— Linda Pastan, “Love Poem”
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erisolympia · a day ago
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Happiness. I try to hoist it on my narrow shoulders again— a knapsack heavy with gold coins. I stumble around the house, bump into things.
from The Obligation to Be Happy by Linda Pastan
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firstfullmoon · 2 days ago
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I am learning to abandon the world before it can abandon me. Already I have given up the moon and snow, closing my shades against the claims of white. And the world has taken my father, my friends. I have given up melodic lines of hills, moving to a flat, tuneless landscape. And every night I give my body up limb by limb, working upwards across bone, towards the heart. But morning comes with small reprieves of coffee and birdsong. A tree outside the window which was simply shadow moments ago takes back its branches twig by leafy twig. And as I take my body back the sun lays its warm muzzle on my lap as if to make amends.
— Linda Pastan, “I Am Learning To Abandon the World”
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apoemaday · 26 days ago
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The Happiest Day
by Linda Pastan
It was early May, I think a moment of lilac or dogwood when so many promises are made it hardly matters if a few are broken. My mother and father still hovered in the background, part of the scenery like the houses I had grown up in, and if they would be torn down later that was something I knew but didn’t believe. Our children were asleep or playing, the youngest as new as the new smell of the lilacs, and how could I have guessed their roots were shallow and would be easily transplanted. I didn’t even guess that I was happy. The small irritations that are like salt on melon were what I dwelt on, though in truth they simply made the fruit taste sweeter. So we sat on the porch in the cool morning, sipping hot coffee. Behind the news of the day— strikes and small wars, a fire somewhere— I could see the top of your dark head and thought not of public conflagrations but of how it would feel on my bare shoulder. If someone could stop the camera then… if someone could only stop the camera and ask me: are you happy? Perhaps I would have noticed how the morning shone in the reflected color of lilac. Yes, I might have said and offered a steaming cup of coffee.
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foundtheminapoem · a month ago
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07/04/21 • end of finals and some car reading •
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foundtheminapoem · a month ago
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The Maypole by Linda Pastan
One must have a mind of spring
to regard the cherry tree burdened
with blossom;
and have been warm for days
to behold the boughs of the redbud
prickly with color in the glint
of the April sun; and not to think
of any cruelty in the difficult birthing
of so many leaves, to feel only pure
elation at the sound of the undulant breeze
which is the sound of every garden
with a breeze blowing among its flowers,
the sound the listener hears, watching the buds
which were not quite here a week ago
pushing up from the oblivion now.
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nsantand · a month ago
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Linda Pastan - Chove sobre a casa de Anne Frank
"Chove sobre a casa de Anne Frank", um poema de Linda Pastan. Se gostou desse poema, compartilhe!
Chove sobre a casade Anne Franke sobre os turistasamontoados sob a sombrade seus guarda-chuvas,sobre os perfeitamente silenciososturistas que prefeririam estarem outro lugarmas que aqui esperam em escadastão íngremes pelas quais eles devem subirpara alguma ocasiãono alto do sótão vazio,no banheiro pitoresco,no esqueletode uma cozinhaou no mapa —cada uma de suas setasuma farpa de arame —com todas…
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dk-thrive · a month ago
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moving slowly, slowly from under me
We are made of water anyway, I can feel it in the yielding of your flesh, though sometimes I think that you are sand, moving slowly, slowly from under me.
— Linda Pastan, from “Erosion,” Poetry (October 1986) (via The Vale of Soul-Making)
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memoryslandscape · 2 months ago
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Consider the white space between words on a page, not just the margins around them. Or the space between thoughts: instants when the mind is inventing exactly what it thinks and the mouth waits to be filled with language. Consider the space between lovers after a quarrel, the white sheet a cold metaphor between them.
Linda Pastan, from “Consider the Space Between Stars,” Poetry of Presence: An Anthology of Mindfulness Poems, eds. Phyllis Cole-Dai & Ruby R. Wilson (Grayson Books, 2017)
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amightyfinelife · 3 months ago
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“agoraphobia,” autoheart / “the bedroom,” vincent van gogh / “agoraphobia,” linda pastan / “neighbors no. 66,” arne svenson / “life as we knew it,” susan beth pfeffer / “bobby at home,” holly warburton / “the separate notebooks,” czesław miłosz 
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elfuegodeluka · 3 months ago
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Poesía estadounidense: Linda Pastan
Poesía estadounidense: Linda Pastan
Linda Pastan (1932). Es una poeta estadounidense de ascendencia judía. En sus poemas se desarrollan frecuentemente en un mundo familiar en el que sus padres, abuelos, hijos, esposo y amantes son protagonistas. SUs temas más notables son el envejecimiento y la mortalidad. Continue reading
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poetrypository · 3 months ago
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After an Absence, Linda Pastan
After an absence that was no one’s fault we are shy with each other, and our words seem younger than we are, as if we must return to the time we met and work ourselves back to the present, the way you never read a story from the place you stopped but always start each book all over again. Perhaps we should have stayed tied like mountain climbers by the safe cord of the phone, its dial our own small prayer wheel, our voices less ghostly across the miles, less awkward than they are now. I had forgotten the grey in your curls, that splash of winter over your face, remembering the younger man you used to be.
And I feel myself turn old and ordinary, having to think again of food for supper, the animals to be tended, the whole riptide of daily life hidden but perilous pulling both of us under so fast. I have dreamed of our bed as if it were a shore where we would be washed up, not this striped mattress we must cover with sheets. I had forgotten all the old business between us, like mail unanswered so long that silence becomes eloquent, a message of its own. I had even forgotten how married love is a territory more mysterious the more it is explored, like one of those terrains you read about, a garden in the desert where you stoop to drink, never knowing if your mouth will fill with water or sand.
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poridge · 3 months ago
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I am Learning to Abandon the World
By Linda Pastan
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violettesiren · 4 months ago
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Isn't the moon dark too, most of the time?
And doesn't the white page seem unfinished
without the dark stain of alphabets?
When God demanded light, he didn't banish darkness.
Instead he invented ebony and crows
and that small mole on your left cheekbone.
Or did you mean to ask "Why are you sad so often?"
Ask the moon. Ask what it has witnessed.
Why Are Your Poems so Dark? by Linda Pastan
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poem-today · 4 months ago
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A poem by Linda Pastan
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January Contorted by wind, mere armatures for ice or snow, the trees resolve to endure for now, they will leaf out in April. And I must be as patient as the trees— a winter resolution I break all over again, as the cold presses its sharp blade against my throat.
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Linda Pastan
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aristotlemcdonald · 4 months ago
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There are Poems
There are poems that are never written, that simply move across the mind like skywriting on a still day: slowly the first word drifts west, the last letters dissolve on the tongue, and what is left is the pure blue of insight, without cloud or comfort.
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violettesiren · 4 months ago
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after reading Rilke
No angel speaks to me. And though the wind plucks the dry leaves as if they were so many notes of music, I can hear no words.
Still, I listen. I search the feathery shapes of clouds hoping to find the curve of a wing. And sometimes, when the static of the world clears just for a moment
a small voice comes through, chastening. Music is its own language, it says. Along the indifferent corridors of space, angels could be hiding.
Muse by Linda Pastan
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