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#Linda Pastan
feral-ballad · 6 months
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Linda Pastan, from Waiting for My Life: Poems; "What We Want"
[Text ID: "and in the morning / our arms ache. / We don't remember the dream, / but the dream remembers us."]
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havingapoemwithyou · 6 months
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ethics by Linda Pastan
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asoftepiloguemylove · 6 months
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Laura Gilpin The Two-Headed Calf // Linda Pastan Why Are Your Poems so Dark? // Margaret Atwood Shapechangers In Winter // @/doeantlers (twitter) // Vladimir Nabokov Letters to Vera // Ada Limón Dead Stars // @xshayarsha
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apoemaday · 1 month
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Wildflowers
by Linda Pastan
You gave me dandelions. They took our lawn by squatters’ rights — round suns rising in April, soft moons blowing away in June. You gave me lady slippers, bloodroot, milkweed, trillium whose secret number the children you gave me tell. In the hierarchy of flowers, the wild rise on their stems for naming. Call them weeds. I pick them as I picked you, for their fierce, unruly joy.
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tunisian · 1 year
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i love this world, even in its hard places
encyclopedia of an ordinary life, amy krouse rosenthal / sometimes it hurts, but i'm happy i'm alive by @sunsbleeding / @arthoesunshine / imaginary conversation, linda pastan / deactivated tumblr user @salemwitchtrials / thank you my fate, anna swir
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lillyli-74 · 4 months
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In the evening my griefs come to me one by one. They tell me what I hoped to forget. They perch on my shoulders like mourning doves. They are the colour of light fading.
~Linda Pastan
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loveisdamnation · 1 year
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sylvia plath | as consciousness is harnessed to flesh, susan sontag | invitation, mary oliver | imaginary conversation, linda pastan | birthday, andrea gibson | good bones, maggie smith | the painted drum, louise erdrich | mouthful of forevers, clementine von radics | new year’s eve, maggie smith
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violentdevotion · 8 months
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Ada Limon
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James Baldwin
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Autumn, Ali Smith
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Hamlet, Shakespeare
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Residual Hauntings, Psychic Library
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Autumn, Ali Smith
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The Five Stages of Grief, Linda Pastan
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Hauntology: How the Ghosts of our Past haunt our Future, Vincent Freeland
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BBC Archive - What is Hauntology
Hauntology
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julesofnature · 7 months
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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.
~ ‘There are Poems’, by Linda Pastan From Carnival Evening: New and Selected Poems, 1968-1998 W.W. Norton, 1998.
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awkward-sultana · 2 years
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The Months, Linda Pastan / Reluctant Goodbyes, O.L. / Unknown / The Londoner / Wuthering Heights, Emily Bronte / Tumblr: Honeytuesday / The Pond, Mary Oliver / Robin Bush / Tumblr: Honeytuesday / Greg Sellers / S. Heaney / Letters of Summer Past / Albert Camus / Unknown / Sara Baume / Tuck Everlasting, Natalie Babbitt / Unknown / Tumblr: Poetryatmost / Instagram: claudbakes / August, Devotions, Mary Oliver
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feral-ballad · 6 months
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Linda Pastan, from Waiting for My Life: Poems; "Excursion"
[Text ID: I am a tourist / in my own life, / gazing at the exotic shapes / of flowers / as if someone else / had planted them;"]
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havingapoemwithyou · 3 months
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[december] by Linda Pastan
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andrumedus · 5 months
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This is the very essence of flight—a bird so swift that only memory can capture it.
Linda Pastan, Almost an Elegy; "Memory of a Bird"
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apoemaday · 3 months
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Agoraphobia
by Linda Pastan
"Yesterday the bird of night did sit, Even at noon-day, upon the marketplace, Hooting and shrieking." —William Shakespeare
1.
Imagine waking to a scene of snow so new    not even memories of other snow can mar its silken surface. What other innocence    is quite like this, and who can blame me for refusing to violate such whiteness with the booted cruelty of tracks?
2.
Though I cannot leave this house,    I have memorized the view from every window— 23 framed landscapes, containing    each nuance of weather and light.    And I know the measure of every room, not as a prisoner    pacing a cell but as the embryo knows the walls of the womb, free to swim as its body tells it, to nudge    the softly fleshed walls, dreading only the moment of contraction when it will be forced    into the gaudy world.
3.
Sometimes I travel as far as the last stone of the path, but every step, as in the children's story, pricks that tender place on the bottom of the foot, and like an ebbing tide with all the obsession of the moon behind it,    I am dragged back.
4.
I have noticed in windy fall how leaves are torn from the trees,    each leaf waving goodbye to the oak    or the poplar that housed it; how the moon, pinned to the very center of the window, is like a moth wanting only to break in.    What I mean is this house follows all the laws of lintel and ridgepole,    obeys the commandments of broom    and of needle, custom and grace. It is not fear that holds me here but passion    and the uncrossable moat of moonlight    outside the bolted doors.
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ma-pi-ma · 6 months
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Questi sentieri inchiostrati che si aprono nel futuro, pagina dopo pagina, ogni libro il proprio orizzonte sfuggente.
Linda Pastan, Sera di Carnevale
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ourobores · 1 year
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the months by linda pastan / christmas mass by clarence gagnon
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