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#mary ruefle
carolinadusk · 21 hours ago
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Melissa Alcena / Dorothea Lange / Ada Limón / Aron Wiesenfeld / Edward Hopper / Mary Ruefle / Holly Warburton / Alex Gardner 
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tonguebreaks · a day ago
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Sometimes people die trying to do things. That’s okay. There are things more important than life or death. I miss holding my breath.
Mary Ruefle, from “Elegy for a Game”
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tonguebreaks · a day ago
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But in the end I didn’t care who died. I wasn’t even willing to mop up the blood.
Mary Ruefle, from “One World at a Time”
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tonguebreaks · a day ago
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it was unspeakable the way I was an animal then though I had always been one it was a declension of that and in some place no bigger than the plastic thimble the cream comes in when they give it to you in public, a place so deep inside me it could be its own organ if they could find it, I felt this suffering to be an act-- never unreal, not that-- but performed by another while I watched, helpless and shocked, unable to stop what was happening.
Mary Ruefle, from “New Morning”
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tonguebreaks · a day ago
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And I, I would not go near the sea for nearly thirty years, I would not drink tea for another twenty, I would not undress, use pockets, read Walter Benjamin or listen to a bumblebee even if he bent the right wing of my scarlet runner, modeling myself after a woman who could only say one thing at a time, and found herself one day in hell, where she went casually and without purpose, having read every poem ever written, and finding not a single one even remotely sad enough.
Mary Ruefle, from “College”
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hisfairangels · a day ago
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When love frees itself from pain the angels cut off their wings and throw them down to earth
Mary Ruefle, from “Müller and Me”
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firstfullmoon · 2 days ago
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God put his finger on my sacrum and he lifted me, he set me in the center of the universe, the curious desire of my chronically lonely life.
It was cold and dark and lonely and I was scared.
— Mary Ruefle, from “Shalimar,” in Trances of the Blast
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anicarissi · 3 days ago
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Reading Mary Ruefle’s MADNESS, RACK, AND HONEY
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ttto-no · 4 days ago
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There is nothing faster than more faster love
faster love is all there is
as it is 4:03 and life takes another amazing and distressful turn
as when a seagull
picks up a French fry
and becomes human
What are we to do at sea
with our logarithms
when faster love is all there is
When April has forty-six days
after which it can’t go on
floating on the mattress
so it rises so we can see
the flowers it was once upon
and a few strands of brownish hair
When we tiptoe down the hall for ice
When ice falls out of the shoot and into the bucket
When a cube falls through the grate and is gone
When we huddle in our sea of cars
When we suffer muchly from glare in the face
and keep the eyes alive
with nothing more than an eyedropper
When we never went snorkeling
but nonetheless sensed people
are more capable of floating by
than any other creature
Stop stop pretty water
Raise a cup of kindness to them
As it is there’s nothing faster
Faster love, it’s all there is
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firstfullmoon · 4 days ago
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I envied all the beautiful things. Sometimes I called my own name. I cursed myself why do I have so many strange questions. I tried to cram myself with the gentler things so as to release some suppressed inclination.
— Mary Ruefle, from “Woodtangle,” in Trances of the Blast
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corneliushickey · 5 days ago
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“You bitch,” he said. “You rich bitch. That's poetry. I'm full of poetry now. Rot and poetry. Rotten poetry.”
Ernest Hemingway, The Snows of Kilimanjaro
You can feel the poetry rotting in your stomach.
Mary Ruefle, Trances of the Blast; “Abdication”
Love is rotting on the vine Crumbling in God's sunshine I am dying all the time
Acid Bath, Venus Blue
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yetaeso · 6 days ago
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when mary ruefle said "hands are unbearably beautiful, they hold onto things, they let things go" and when mitski sang "i don't know what to do without you, i don't know where to put my hands" and when richard siken wrote "i take off my hands and i give them to you but you don't want them, so i take them back and put them on the wrong way, wrong wrists" and when bukowski said "the best often die by their own hand just to get away, and those left behind can never quite understand why anybody would ever want to get away from them"
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queen-of-thunder · 13 days ago
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Air
Earth • Water • Fire
“French Novel” by Richie Hofmann // “Poem for My Love” by June Jordan // “Greetings My Dear Ghost” by Mary Ruefle // Quote by Franz Kafka // A Month in the Country by J. L. Carr // Any Way the Wind Blows from Hadestown // “That Map Of Bone And Opened Valves” by Ilya Kaminsky // The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner // post by @exit152 // “The 7:10 Train” by @imperiallefty
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yesjojobirdflyhigh · 14 days ago
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Oh my god, it’s Paris by moonlight
Even the trees are drunk and walking
A single pink slipper floats down the Seine
What kind of trees are those?
Those are trees in Paris by moonlight
And what size is her slipper?
It is the exact size of the sole
We ate in the little restaurant an hour ago
Under the trees in Paris by moonlight
There is no end to our painlessness
The trees will never find it
The slipper never reach it
Morning after morning the smell of coffee
Makes them nauseous
While we go on painlessly in Paris
Barefoot and swaggering 
Our aluminum heads in the moon glow so
We are like an advertisement 
For those who will come after us
Anyone can see without French
They should just stay in bed
Mary Reufle | Paris By Moonlight
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april-is · 16 days ago
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April 21, 2021: Kiss of the Sun, Mary Ruefle
Kiss of the Sun Mary Ruefle If, as they say, poetry is a sign of something among people, then let this be prearranged now, between us, while we are still peoples: that at the end of time, which is also the end of poetry (and wheat and evil and insects and love), when the entire human race gathers in the flesh, reconstituted down to the infant's tiniest fold and littlest nail, I will be standing at the edge of that fathomless crowd with an orange for you, reconstituted down to its innermost seed protected by white thread, in case you are thirsty, which does not at this time seem like such a wild guess, and though there will be no poetry between us then, at the end of time, the geese all gone with the seas, I hope you will take it, and remember on earth I did not know how to touch it it was all so raw, and if by chance there is no edge to the crowd or anything else so that I am of it, I will take the orange and toss it as high as I can.
==
Today on:
2020: Teaching English from an Old Composition Book, Gary Soto 2019: Easter, Jill Alexander Essbaum 2018: Annunciation, Marie Howe 2017: The Promise, Marie Howe 2016: In the Woods, Kathryn Simmonds 2015: Heat, Jane Hirshfield 2014: What Remains, Ellery Akers 2013: 30th Birthday, Alice Notley 2012: Untitled [I closed the book and changed my life], Bruce Smith 2011: The Forties, Franz Wright 2010: Prayer of the Backhanded, Jericho Brown 2009: A Primer, Bob Hicok 2008: Because You Asked about the Line between Prose and Poetry, Howard Nemerov 2007: Open Letter to the Muse, Kristy Bowen 2006: A Sad Child, Margaret Atwood 2005: The Crunch, Charles Bukowski
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fatheruins · 17 days ago
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on fathers ; things i’ve collected here, and other places on the internet
topaz winters, war story with my father // sylvia plath, the unabridged journals of sylvia plath // fatherland, eloise robinson // mary ruefle, trances of the blast // interstellar (2014) // unknown(?)/still searching // bruce springsteen - my fathers house (springsteen on broadway) // my father’s fields, dan gerber // parasite (2019) // my fathers funeral, frank ormsby
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dialux · 19 days ago
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I sat and read Mary Ruefle over the weekend, only to realize that a) farming poetry isn't my style, b) Iowa farming poetry is REALLY not my style, c) I can actually overlook that for some banging quotes that need a finetooth comb to extract
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mochiimoo · 20 days ago
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"But the moon was the first poem, in the lyric sense, an entity complete in itself, recognizable at a glance, one that played upon the emotions so strongly that the context of time and place hardly seemed to matter."
"Poetry and the Moon" by Mary Ruefle
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