Karina Borowicz, September Tomatoes
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RISING FROM THE BED OF GRIEF
my chemical romance / rainer maria rilke / softhe4rted / bo burnham / karina borowicz / anne boyer / my chemical romance
transcript under the cut
[Image 1 text: If we were all like you in the end / Oh, we'd be killing ourselves by sleeping in]
[Image 2 text: I am very concerned when I imagine how strangled and cut off you currently live, afraid of touching anything that is filled with memories (and what is not filled with memories?). You will freeze in place if you remain this way. You must not, dear. You have to move.]
[Image 3 text: (dec 30, 2020) anon said: i realized today I want a life. I realized I want a wife and a dog and a house with double doors. Sunsets and sunrises give me hope, I love driving with the windows down. I realized that I wanted a life. It made me cry to understand this.]
[Image 4 text: I said get your fuckin' hands up / Get up, get up / I'm talkin' to you, get the fuck up]
[Image 5 text: It feels cruel. Something in me isn't ready / to let go of summer so easily. To destroy / what I've carefully cultivated all these months. / Those pale flowers might still have time to fruit.
My great-grandmother sang with the girls of her village / as they pulled the flax. Songs so old / and so tied to the season that the very sound / seemed to turn the weather.]
[Image 6 text: with perfect fortitude, saying "look at the skill and spirit with which I rise from that which resembles the grave but isn't!"]
[Image 7 text: Yes, it comforts me much more / To lay in the foundations of decay / Get up, coward!]
[Caption plaintext:
rising from the bed of grief
my chemical romance / rainer maria rilke / softhe4rted / bo burnham / karina borowicz / anne boyer / my chemical romance ]
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september tomatoes by Karina Borowicz
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Karina Borowicz - September Tomatoes
The whiskey stink of rot has settled
in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises
when I touch the dying tomato plants.
Still, the claws of tiny yellow blossoms
flail in the air as I pull the vines up by the roots
and toss them in the compost.
It feels cruel. Something in me isn’t ready
to let go of summer so easily. To destroy
what I’ve carefully cultivated all these months.
Those pale flowers might still have time to fruit.
My great-grandmother sang with the girls of her village
as they pulled the flax. Songs so old
and so tied to the season that the very sound
seemed to turn the weather.
- September Tomatoes by Karina Borowicz
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The whiskey stink of rot has settled
in the garden, and a burst of fruit flies rises
when I touch the dying tomato plants.
Still, the claws of tiny yellow blossoms
flail in the air as I pull the vines up by the roots
and toss them in the compost.
It feels cruel. Something in me isn’t ready
to let go of summer so easily. To destroy
what I’ve carefully cultivated all these months.
Those pale flowers might still have time to fruit.
My great-grandmother sang with the girls of her village
as they pulled the flax. Songs so old
and so tied to the season that the very sound
seemed to turn the weather.
September Tomatoes by Karina Borowicz
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favourite poems of september
robin blaser the holy forest: collected poems of robin blaser: "[dear dusty moth]"
robin ekiss the mansion of happiness: "the bones of august"
e.e. cummings complete poems 1904-1962: "[anyone lived in a pretty how town]"
daisy fried econo motel, ocean city
david campos guilt shower and bad catholic
deborah a. miranda the zen of la llorona: "advice from la llorona"
v. penelope pelizzon blood memory
aimee nezhukumatathil invitation
jeffrey jullich portrait of colon dash paranthesis: "some materials may be inappropriate for children"
karina borowicz september tomatoes
patricia kirkpatrick survivor's guilt
kamau brathwaite born to slow horses: "i was wash-way in blood"
leslie adrienne miller the resurrection trade: "weaning"
allen edwin butt if briefly
gerrit lansing a february sheaf: selected writings, verse and prose: "how we sizzled in the pasture"
jayne cortez on the imperial highway: "in the morning"
stephen yenser preserves
ethan gilsdorf the imprint of september second
kathryn maris abc
paul zarzyski the antler tree
judith goldman vocoder: "rotten oasis"
tato laviera benedición: the complete poetry of tato laviera: "latero story"
tim seibles mosaic
ethan gilsdorf the imprint of september second
lucy wainger jiro dreams of sushi
robert duncan ground work: before the war: "a little language"
r.s. thomas the poems of r.s. thomas: "forest dwellers"
anthony wrynn saint john in the wilderness
reginald gibbons bear
walt whitman "are you the new person drawn toward me?"
kofi
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🍂 september poems 🍂
September 1913, William Butler Yeats
The Imprint of September Second, Ethan Gilsdorf
September, Joanne Kyger
Drowning in September, Eric Pfeiffer
September, H Stuart
September Tomatoes, Karina Borowicz
One September Night, Franco Fortini
September Sunday, Lucille Broderson
September, 1918, Amy Lowell
September Midnight, Sara Teasdale
Monday, September 25, 2006, Susan Schultz
One September Afternoon, Leo Dangel
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it’s september. go read september tomatoes by karina borowicz
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three letters, she loves me // karina borowicz // francis forever, mitski
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THE OLD COUNTRY
There was another country
always spoken of
with reverence.
I didn’t understand
why we’d left, I didn’t yet
understand the saw blade
of history. I was nourished
by nostalgia for a place
I couldn’t remember.
Wasn’t there a great forest,
a bison that would lap
milk from my hand?
The scrape of that secret
dark tongue.
A woodsman’s cottage,
shelves lined with carved
and painted birds.
Our fireplace was where
the stories were read
from a burning book.
Molten logs, lit from within:
See the shadow of a man
in there. See a terrifying
creature with wings.
See it all fall down.
KARINA BOROWICZ
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