"Blood burst through the sheet
like a patch of violets,
a hundred roses in bloom."
And even though you said today you felt better,
and it is so late in this poem, it is okay to be
to say, I don't feel good,
to ask you to tell me a story
about the sweet grass you planted -- and tell it
or again --
until I can smell its sweet smoke,
leave this thrashed field, and be smooth."
- From The Desire Field, Natalie Diaz
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richard siken; you are jeff // daft punk; touch // dir. miles joris-peyrafitte; as you are // natalie diaz; isn't the air also a body, moving? // dir. park chan wook; the handmaiden // deborah a. miranda; love poem to a butch woman // sam levinson (creator, writer); euphoria // nikky finney; the aureole // hera lindsay bird; mirror traps
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Powdered unicorn horn was once thought to cure melancholy.
What carries the hurt is never the wound
but the red garden sewn by the horn
as it left––and she left. I am rosing,
blooming absence, its brilliant alarum.
Brodsky said, Darkness restores what light cannot––
repair. You thrilled me––opened to the comb.
O, wizard, O, wound. I want the ebon bull and the moon––
I’ve come for the honeyed horn.
Queen Elizabeth traded a castle for a single horn.
Surrender to the kingdom in my hands––
army of touch marching upon the alcazar
of your thighs like bright horns.
I arrive at you––half bestia, half feast.
Tonight we harvest the luxed forest
of Caderas, name the darkful fruit
spicing our mouths, separate sweet from thorn.
Lanternist, in your wicked palm,
the bronzed lamp of my breast. Strike the sparker––
take me with tremble. Into your lap
let me lay my heavy horns.
I fulfilled the prophecy of your throat,
loosed in you the fabulous wing of my mouth––
red holy-red ghost. I spoke to god,
returned to you feathered, seraphimed and horned.
Our bodies are nothing if not places to be had by,
as in, God, she has me by the throat,
by the hip bone, by the moon. God,
she has me by the horn.
The Cure for Melancholy is to Take the Horn by Natalie Diaz
My mind in the dark is una bestia, unfocused,
hot. And if not yoked to exhaustion
beneath the hip and plow of my lover,
then I am another night wandering the desire field—
Natalie Diaz, From the Desire Field
compilation of poetry that makes me feel hunger and if i could draw i would make gay comics about
If I try running off into the deep-purpling scrub brush,
you will remind me,
There is nowhere to go if you are already here,
say, Here, Love, sit here — when I do,
I will say, And here I still am.
Until then, Where are you?
In the tourmaline dusk I go a same wilding path,
pulled by a night’s map into the forests and dunes of your hips,
divining you from rivers, then crossing them—
proving the long thirst I’d wander to be sated by you.
I confuse instinct for desire—isn't bite also touch?
Some things cannot be charted—
the middle-night cosmography of your moving hands,
the constellation holding the gods
of your jaw and ear.
In your hands I am a coming vessel,
an empty boat, willing to be helmsman or helmed,
moored, made fast—shackled and filled.
More pilgrimage than wandering. More mercy
than amaze. I will follow this wet map of you
along whatever remains of the corridors of my life.
This is my knee, since she touches me there.
This is my throat, as defined by her reaching.
I am touched—I am.
Natalie Diaz, Isn't the Air Also a Body, Moving?
postcolonial love poem natalie diaz // getting ready to say i love you to my dad, it rains josé olivarez // the erl-king angela carter //
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You have the most amazing poetry taste and knowledge <3 thank your for everything you post here. I was wondering if you could one day make a compilation of natalie diaz and ada limón poems? (I believe they’re even friends) and they are like two of my fave poets right now! <3 have a nice day Pau!
thank you ♡♡♡ they’re two of my favourite poets as well and do you know just yesterday a friend asked me for lesbian poems recs for her gf’s birthday and i put so many natalie diaz poems i’m obsessed with her...my favourites:
“It Was the Animals”
“Postcolonial Love Poem”
“If I Should Come Upon Your House Lonely in the West Texas Desert”
as for ada limón:
“The Great Blue Heron of Dunbar Road”
“Lies About Sea Creatures”
“What I Didn’t Know Before”
“During the Impossible Age of Everyone”
(but honestly please please read their complete collections!!)
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Excerpt of ‘The First Water is the Body’ from Natalie Diaz’s poetry collection: Postcolonial Love Poem
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I still hate raisins,
but not for the crooked commodity lines
we stood in to get them—winding
around and in the tribal gymnasium.
Not for the awkward cardboard boxes
we carried them home in. Not for the shits
or how they distended my belly.
I hate raisins because now I know
my mom was hungry that day, too,
and I ate all the raisins.
Natalie Diaz, from “Why I Hate Raisins”
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I can't believe natalie diaz is going to join the list of writers/poets I've read because of supernatural. insane. INSANE
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You gotta stop reblogging thirst posts, i'm trying make dinner for my family rn
yeah well tell that to natalie diaz
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We burn our dead we say—: because we do. Touch me I say, because it’s a story we become.
— Natalie Diaz, from “Duned”
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Bells are they—shaped on the eighth day—silvered
percussion in the morning—are the morning.
Swing switch sway. Hold the day away a little
longer, a little slower, a little easy. Call to me—
I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock, I-I wanna rock
right now—so to them I come—struck-dumb
chime-blind, tolling with a throat full of Hosanna.
How many hours bowed against this Infinity of Blessed
Trinity? Communion of Pelvis, Sacrum, Femur.
My mouth—terrible angel, ever-lasting novena,
O, the places I have laid them, knelt and scooped
the amber—fast honey—from their openness—
Ah Muzen Cab’s hidden Temple of Tulúm—licked
smooth the sticky of her hip—heat-thrummed ossa
coxae. Lambent slave to ilium and ischium—I never tire
to shake this wild hive, split with thumb the sweet-
dripped comb—hot hexagonal hole—dark diamond—
to its nectar-dervished queen. Meanad tongue—
come-drunk hum-tranced honey-puller—for her hips,
I am—strummed-song and succubus.
They are the sign: hip. And the cosign: a great book—
the body’s Bible opened up to its Good News Gospel.
Alleluias, Ave Marías, madre mías, ay yay yays,
Ay Dios míos, and hip-hip-hooray.
Cult of Coccyx. Culto de cadera.
Oracle of Orgasm. Rorschach’s riddle:
What do I see? Hips:
Innominate bone. Wish bone. Orpheus bone.
Transubstantiation bone—hips of bread,
wine-whet thighs. Say the word and healed I shall be:
Bone butterfly. Bone wings. Bone Ferris wheel.
Bone basin bone throne bone lamp.
Apparition in the bone grotto—6th mystery—
slick rosary bead—Déme la gracia of a decade
in this garden of carmine flower. Exile me
to the enormous orchard of Alcinous—spiced fruit,
laden-tree—Imparadise me. Because, God,
I am guilty. I am sin-frenzied and full of teeth
for pear upon apple upon fig.
More than all that are your hips.
They are a city. They are Kingdom—
Troy, the hollowed horse, an army of desire—
thirty soldiers in the belly, two in the mouth.
Beloved, your hips are the war.
At night your legs, love, are boulevards
leading me beggared and hungry to your candy
house, your baroque mansion. Even when I am late
and the tables have been cleared,
in the kitchen of your hips, let me eat cake.
O, constellation of pelvic glide—every curve,
a luster, a star. More infinite still, your hips are
kosmic, are universe—galactic carousel of burning
comets and Big Big Bangs. Millennium Falcon,
let me be your Solo. O, hot planet, let me
circumambulate. O, spiral galaxy, I am coming
for your dark matter.
Along las calles de tus muslos I wander—
follow the parade of pulse like a drum line—
descend into your Plaza del Toros—
hands throbbing Miura bulls, dark Isleros.
Your arched hips—ay, mi torera.
Down the long corridor, your wet walls
lead me like a traje de luces—all glitter, glowed.
I am the animal born to rush your rich red
muletas—each breath, each sigh, each groan,
a hooked horn of want. My mouth at your inner
thigh—here I must enter you—mi pobre
Manolete—press and part you like a wound—
make the crowd pounding in the grandstand
of your iliac crest rise up in you and cheer.
Ode to the Beloved’s Hips by Natalie Díaz
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In the beginning we didn’t understand the bullet. It had no head, no arms or legs—: Menamentk we said. It crossed the water. We named it ‘Anya kwa’oorny. We named it Of the Sun. We had no word for shore, except how water touches land.
They gave us the word shore for their bullet to arrive on. Then said our flesh was also Shore—: so we called the bullet Bullet. We name things for what is done there.
— Natalie Diaz, from “Duned”
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"Self-Portrait as a Chimera," Natalie Diaz // "Wet Dream," Ally Ang
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Air • Water • Fire
“Postcolonial Love Poem” by Natalie Diaz // “Cradle” by Anis Mojgani // Bury Me Face Down by grandson // Tender Is The Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald // Post by @starei // “Sowing” by Audre Lorde // Untitled by @cielosky // “Love Poem: Mermaid” by Donika Kelly // “Outbound” by Hieu Minh Nguyen // “That Little Bird Was Not Okay” by Heather Christle
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grief work by natalie diaz, 2015
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