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#list poems
poetryorchard · 3 months
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Join @nashira in her first writing workshop of the year on LIST POEMS! (this is my first time facilitating in 4 months 🥹💚 come write list poems with me?)
🎟️Tickets £1+ Attendance NOT required! Feel free to sign just for the materials!
Sign up here 💚
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this poem was written by a lesbian, fall 2022
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from collected poems by John Berger
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cityofruins · 7 months
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How does someone become a stranger
They become the softest edge of a knife, slowly piercing your heart till it bleeds to learn that people are created in the weirdest way possible.
1. They become the softest edge of a knife, slowly piercing your heart till it bleeds to learn that people are created in the weirdest way possible. People hurt you when they love you the most, they become attached to you at one time and distance from you at another like you mean nothing to them. 2. They become unsatisfied. Everything you do irks their very being, they complain, crib, and yell…
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salmaqayuum · 1 year
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things my dog has destroyed
things my dog has destroyed; 
our old couch, it was gray and screamed south asian family’s fancy living room circa 2007
teeth that sunk into her trainers arm and a two year old bone
the surgery did not tame her
though i don’t think i’d want it to
my dad’s hand the first night she laid in my bed
the butterfly sheets on said bed
said bed at approximately 12:30 AM January 1, 2020, not even an hour prior i had an existential crisis about turning 17 in august and graduating in may, leaving coolidge, and band, the friends i’d made. my dark red iphone smothered in polaroids of my cats and a “in a gentle way, you can shake the world.” fortune cookie covered by a clear case buzzed with my dad’s irate voice, saying she peed on my mattress, asking why i had to be out so late and leave my dog when all i wanted that night was to prove i was deserving of real friendships, ones that valued me as a person and showed me love no matt-  
the state of texas
yee-haw.
the medicine she was given to “calm her” 
that was bullshit if i’d ever seen it
a pillow i inherited from my dead grandfather, it had leaves on it in a fall color palette- it was a simple design i don’t hold it over her
our house.
she was an interior designer who hated carpet, it was a therapy for her to rip out the carpet with me i think, maybe she was a homemaker in a past life- if dogs have past lives? I’m not sure if i can say that as a Muslim
i’m still not sure I can have a dog as a Muslim
(yes, i can) 
our chance to live in an unupdated house 
my chances of sneaking a boy or girl into my house 
(my dad doesn’t hate that one.) 
british raj and south asians 
quite literally moving up in the world through our staircase
automatic chair that brings you up the stairs 
the wild west 
yee-haw pt. 2 electric boogaloo 
her ability to have a friendship with the cat or any other dog 
foot surgery- well… toe surgery
renters insurance; i mean c’mon if i shoot a burglar that’s fine but heaven forbid a dog bites them
plastic pools that reek of sun and warmth but live in the cold garage
the dollar store
elevator music, it plays on repeat
the gateway we kept to block her from the kitchen
although she outsmarted more than destroyed it 
the chance to be a smart dog, instead she remains a smart dumbass.
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noctuary-of-one · 7 months
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30.08.23
Things you only notice when you're bleeding:
1. The sign on the local church that's changed to read "forgiveness is real."
2. The lowest voice in a choir
3. It's easier to recall workplace tiles before coworkers' eye colours
4. She never really forgave you
5. The more constant an injury is, the less obvious its pain becomes.
6. You never really forgave her
7. The sign on the local church that's changed to read "accept miracles."
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wedarkacademia · 1 year
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– Susan Sontag
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morepeachyogurt · 2 years
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chen chen, nature poem in ‘when i grow up i want to be a list of further possibilities’
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sasperine · 9 days
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who wrote the wikipedia descriptions for catullus's poetry
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asoftepiloguemylove · 8 months
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Chen Chen "Elegy;" When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities // art: uknown quote: Fyodor Dostoeyevsky The Brothers Karamazov // Bianca Sparacino // Ursula Le Guin "Dragonfly;" Tales from Earthsea // pinterest // Honey Boy (2019) dir. Alma Har'el // @wuntrum
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flowercrowngods · 10 days
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It's unreal. The light is streaming in through the windows, the curtains still drawn to block out the midday heat, tinging their living room in golden hues that match so well with the light grey fabric of their new sofa.
Eddie should probably snap out of it and head over to the windows, open the curtains and let the light in, and with it the warmth and fresh air of a surprisingly wonderful day.
It's March, he hears the echoes of Steve's giddy voice a week or two ago. Everything's better in March.
Eddie didn't agree then, and he's not sure he agrees now, but he must admit there is something magical about this moment.
Still he remains rooted to the spot, leather jacket heavy on his shoulders, his hands hidden in the sleeves of it, just in case this really is a dream. Just in case someone will come in and snap him out of it, take away their couch and leave an eviction notice.
It's dumb. But Eddie doesn't deal well with things that are unreal. Things that he knows aren't meant for him. Things that he knows he only gets in this one play-through of his life, while millions of other Eddie Munsons are out there in parallel universes who never get to even lay eyes upon a couch this nice. Let alone buy it. From their own real adult money.
It's a corner sofa, the fabric light grey, and he remembers it being harder than it looks. Solid. Just perfect for both their fucked up backs, scar tissue pulling if they sit wrong for too long, phantom pain and muscle aches coming in hot when all they want is to just relax and enjoy a lazy evening.
Eddie bites his lip, trailing his eyes along the pristine fabric, the pillows lining the back of it, the flawless stitches keeping everything in shape.
They have a couch now. A sofa.
It's so fucking unreal.
He drops to the floor right then and there, sitting with his back against the wall, and never once taking his eyes off their sofa. It feels important to look at it for a while. It feels important to wait for Steve. It feels... It feels like maybe he'll ruin everything if he goes and sits on it now.
And it feels really fucking big.
At some point he hears the front door opening, their lock going so smoothly now that Steve fixed it with some graphite, and the sound makes Eddie smile. That's another thing that's unreal. The key barely making any noise, the lock not rattling, the door not creaking and cracking. Eddie pulls a strand of hair between his lips, the smile feeling too silly for this room, for this home, for everything he gets to have now.
For all the tiny things that matter now. All the tiny things he gets to have, turning the key's smooth slide into an allegory of everything he ever wanted but never dared to hope for.
The slide of curtains, the click-click-click of the window handle being turned to let the air in. The breeze of fresh spring air dancing around his nose.
It's all a little much. It's so fucking addicting.
And then Steve. Socked feet coming to a stop beside him, a hand landing in his hair, a voice that's so endlessly warm and fond and maybe a little worried sounding from above him, "Hi, angel."
"Hi," Eddie says, tearing his eyes away from their couch to meet Steve's. The sunlight from the windows hugs him, making him glow. Eddie smiles. He smiles and smiles and never wants to stop.
Steve hums as he leans down to press a kiss to his forehead, and Eddie weaves his arm through Steve's legs, holding onto his knee.
Everything feels a little less silly now. Like every time Steve doesn't question his little moments of sitting on the floor and just staring at things.
"We have a couch now," Eddie says, because it feels important to point out. Because Steve isn't looking at it.
"We do," he hums. "I got the call earlier. Thanks for helping with that, baby."
Eddie nods again, leaning his cheek against Steve's knee and trailing the couch again with his eyes. It looks brighter now that the curtains don't turn the room into something out of a sepia-type movie anymore.
Steve's hands comb through his hair, massaging his scalp a little with his nails. It's nice. It's warm. It's pretty.
And it's so unreal.
"I'm twenty-four," Eddie says then, and some part of him wants to carve that into the fabric. He won't. But maybe he should carve it somewhere else. "And I own a couch. It's a little crazy."
Steve comes to sit down beside him, their shoulders pressed together and he links their hands, resting them in his lap after a brushes a kiss to Eddie's knuckles.
"Why's it crazy, angel?"
He shrugs, resting his head on Steve's shoulders and curling into his warmth some more.
"Most of my life I never thought either of those would happen, y'know."
Another hum, followed by another kiss to the crown of his head. Another smile.
"But you did it," Steve whispers. "You made it. And we've got a couch now."
"We've got a couch now."
Saying it out loud doesn't make it feel any realer. It only makes his heart race and his eyes prick.
"I love you," he says, finally looking away from pretty grey fabric to meet prettier hazel eyes. "I love you so much."
Steve leans in, kissing the tip of his nose. "I love you. Thank you for buying a couch with me."
And it occurs to Eddie then that Steve understands him. Sitting there on the floor with him, hearing his words and listening to those unsaid, understanding Eddie on such a fundamental level that it should be scary. And it is, sometimes.
But he's not scared now. Because they have a couch. And they have pretty curtains that keep the light outside and still turn the room into something magical. And they have a lock that only needed a bit of graphite to let the keys glide smoothly.
And they have each other.
They stay on the floor until Steve's stomach growls, and they eat dinner with their backs against the couch and Eddie's feet in Steve's lap. They hold each other close after dinner, just breathing each other in as the breeze blows around them.
In the end, Eddie is the first to sit on the couch, with Steve standing between his legs and giving him a scalp massage in silence. In the end, Eddie buries his face in Steve's stomach to hide the tears, and Steve lets him.
Because this is real. And he gets to have this. They both do.
🤍 permanent tag list gang: @skiddit @inklessletter @aringofsalt @hellion-child @stobin-cryptid@hotluncheddie @gutterflower77@auroraplume@steddieonbigboy @n0-1-important@stevesjockstrap @brainvines @puppy-steve @izzy2210 @itsall-taken @mangoinacan13 @madigoround@pukner@i-amthepizzaman @swimmingbirdrunningrock @hammity-hammer @stevesbipanic@bitchysunflower @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi @awkwardgravity1 (lmk if you want on or off, for this story or permanently)
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llovelymoonn · 30 days
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favourite poems of february
avery r. young peestain
claudine toutoungi future perfect
david rivard bewitched playground: "not guilty"
brian kim stefans the future is one of place
lisa gill post-traumatic rainstorm
clare pollard pinocchios
rebecca lindenberg love, an index: "catalogue of ephemera"
etel adnan the arab apocalypse: "xxxvi"
stanley moss god breaketh not all men's hearts alike: "a blind fisherman"
robert browning an epistle containing the strange medical experience of karshish, the arab physician
tom sleigh beirut tank
khaled mattawa ismailia eclipse: "date palm trinity"
mark levine unemployment (3)
lucia cherciu butter, olive oil, flour
reginald shepherd fata morgana: "you, therefore"
john updike claremont hotel, southwest harbour, maine
bruce smith the other lover: "february sky"
johnny cash forever words: the unknown poems: "don't make a movie about me"
eamon grennan what light there is & other poems: "jewel box"
eduardo c. corral in colorado my father scoured and stacked dishes
thomas mccarthy the beginning of colour
divya victor curb: "blood / soil"
henneh kyereh kwaku in praise
joanna fuhrman to a new era: "lavender"
rosemary catacalos sight unseen
sam willetts digging
megan fernandes winter
jaswinder bolina the plague on tv
juan felipe herrera notes on the assemblage: "almost livin' almost dyin'"
kofi
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thoughtkick · 9 months
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Some words stay in your head long after theyre spoken.
Robin Roe; A List of Cages
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cityofruins · 7 months
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What do you miss the most about a fading relationship?
– The heart that breaks with every breath you take and your mind creates a barrier so that you don’t fall weak to your feelings. You don’t surrender into this madness again. – You feel like you have been sinking in the depths of your mistakes, arguments and disrespects since quite a long time alone. – Your feelings do not die all at a time. Your heartbeats call for ‘one last time’ while your…
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waitinqroom · 2 years
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we are breaking, because i am tender. mitski / on earth we’re briefly gorgeous - ocean vuong / umarmung - wilhelm list / augusten burroughs/ tenderness and love - joseph lorusso / soren - beabadobee/ wishbone - richard siken / waiting room - phoebe bridgers / anne magill
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votive · 1 year
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— Chen Chen, Ode to My Envy
excerpts from: When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities
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