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#national poetry month
tearinmyside · 18 minutes ago
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NaPoWriMo, Day 11...
i’m learning how to write and remain in ruins
to watch the cracks in the ceiling grow and open like hungry mouths while the floors begin to warp and the walls buckle— and i am sitting with the last empty notepad in my possession in the middle of a foyer that no feet but mine have traveled in years and nothing is resolved by leaving traces of what is slowly eating away at me on the dusky walls in permanent marker when collapse is imminent when i am the city of pompeii and vesuvius is always ready to bury me without a trace.
-kab
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april-is · 22 minutes ago
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April 11, 2021: Dust, Dorianne Laux
Dust Dorianne Laux
Someone spoke to me last night, told me the truth. Just a few words, but I recognized it. I knew I should make myself get up, write it down, but it was late, and I was exhausted from working all day in the garden, moving rocks. Now, I remember only the flavor — not like food, sweet or sharp. More like a fine powder, like dust. And I wasn’t elated or frightened, but simply rapt, aware. That’s how it is sometimes — God comes to your window, all bright light and black wings, and you’re just too tired to open it.
==
Today in:
2020: VI. Wisdom: The Voice of God, Mary Karr 2019: What I Didn’t Know Before, Ada Limón 2018: History, Jennifer Michael Hecht 2017: from Correspondences, Anne Michaels 2016: Mesilla, Carrie Fountain 2015: Dolores Park, Keetje Kuipers 2014: Finally April and the Birds Are Falling Out of the Air with Joy, Anne Carson 2013: The Flames, Kate Llewellyn 2012: To See My Mother, Sharon Olds 2011: Across a Great Wilderness without You, Keetje Kuipers 2010: Poem About Morning, William Meredith 2009: Death, The Last Visit, Marie Howe 2008: Animals, Frank O’Hara 2007: Johnny Cash in the Afterlife, Bronwen Densmore 2006: Anne Hathaway, Carol Ann Duffy 2005: Sleep Positions, Lola Haskins
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writelikefools2021 · 39 minutes ago
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But She Would Never - David Joseph Ostrowski - day 10
my mother would always talk about how she wanted to live in a house with a bench in a big bay window but she would never consider living in a house old enough to contain any of those things
my mother would always talk about how she wanted to live in a house with a built-in breakfast nook and an island countertop in the kitchen but she would never consider living in an urban environment where a house would contain any of those things
my mother would always talk about how she wanted to live in a house with french glass doors to a den or study and white crown molding around the perimeters of all the rooms but she would never consider living in such a way that she would intrinsically deserve any of those things
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theotherpages · 44 minutes ago
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National Poetry Month Number 11 - Yolanda Wisher - sonnet w / cooking lexicon
You can listen to the podcast version of today’s article on Spotify, ITunes, Anchor, Breaker, or Google Podcasts. Click Here to access links. (https://anchor.fm/steve-spanoudis) Look for the podcast titled National Poetry Month at the Other Pages.
Welcome to National Poetry Month at The Other Pages. My name is Steve Spanoudis and I curate the series each year, with help and contributions from Bob Blair i, Kashiana Singh and (Nelson) Howard Miller.
In retrospect, love poems, as such, are not a form we have covered much in this series. Today’s poem is an unusual one. Like the earlier example from Ladan Osman, this is also a prose poem, though on a lighter subject. It might be more accurately classified as an infatuation poem. Maybe a serious infatuation poem. Not a serious poem, a seriously infatuated poem.
As a slight tangent, I would comment that over the past year of pandemic, where so many have been isolated in their homes, nesting tendencies have been magnified: people have obsessed over pets, plants, and all aspects of their homes and immediate surroundings. Including food, of course, but foodie culture has been on the upswing for most of the last two decades. Cable TV has popularized what was, in the past, either a highly specialized, or highly pretentious vocabulary. And speaking of tangents, yes, today’s poet takes that vocabulary, that lexicon, in a whole new direction.
One of the things I like best about doing this series, is it gives me the opportunity to learn about new poets. Or at least, new to me. I often realize, as in the case of today’s poet Yolanda Wisher, that I should have known about them already. Born in 1976, she is a poet, educator, spoken word performer, and lead singer for the band Yolanda Wisher and the Big Fixx. She is currently the Poet Laureate of Philadelphia, and you can learn more about her, hear her singing, and listen to her performing some of her poems on her website, http://yolandawisher.com
I’m not going to read today’s poem out loud for reasons that will be obvious when you hear her. It’s far better coming from her as a performance piece. I’ll just comment for the movie aficionados out there, that if Georgia Byrd in the remake of Last Holiday could have said what she was thinking about Sean Matthews out loud, this would be the script.
It’s called sonnet w / cooking lexicon, and while it has a few sonnet structural elements, but is essentially a prose poem in 14 lines.
So I’m going to send you to Yolanda Wisher’s website. Go to the Gallery page and hear her sing, and then tab to the right a few times in the gallery until you see her standing on a darkened stage at BIF2018. It is well worth your time to listen. There is also a link directly to her reading in the text.
http://www.yolandawisher.com/gallery/2018/10/2/yolanda-wisher-a-poet-of-people-and-place
As a treat tomorrow, if all goes well, instead of me you’ll be hearing the first of this year’s pieces from Kashiana Singh. Always a voice worth listening to. I hope you’re enjoying the series. If you are, please share the link on social media.
Thanks for Listening
You can find more at theotherpages.org, or at The Other Pages on Facebook or Tumblr.
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mochiimoo · an hour ago
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Just for tonight, love, we scream back at the monsters outside our window. We’ve kept stones and broken things to build our own world with them.
"Like Gods," Katie Staten
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kellnelson · 3 hours ago
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from The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris, chapter 13
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drunk-on-writing · 3 hours ago
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"eureka!"
it’s funny how i always thought i would die without you, yet here we are; the days have turned to months to years and i’m doing just fine without you by my side maybe i didn’t need you as badly as i once believed
(cc, 2021)
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cityofchapin · 3 hours ago
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"Memoir" by Vijay Seshadri
For the 11th poem, I have chosen "Memoir" by Vijay Seshadri. Please enjoy. #NationalPoetryMonth
Often times, I wonder how much truth I put out there into the world. Truth that I allow strangers to read. Truth that my dearest friends may or may not know. How honest am I when I write these fictions? When I recount my tales to coworkers about a life that seems to belong to someone else entirely? As writers – as humans – we often like to recall the stories of our triumphs. Rarely do we engage…
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marimuntanya · 4 hours ago
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National Poetry Month Day 8: Male Fridas from Broken Wings
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marimuntanya · 4 hours ago
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SELF PORTRAIT as retratos cosas locas y de locos (stolen) - Patricia Spears Jones
for Papo Colo
Shall we have cocktails while slipping about the Edge of Catastrophe—gin and tonic for summer Whiskey sour for fall. All is not well, yet sun Illumines green leafed trees, soon bare   soon bare
Our eyes prowl fence edges for morning glory vines Our ears gallop from the booming bass of pumped up cars Our legs move as swiftly as a catamaran in dock We mock the heavens with calls for Paradise Now.
Artist perambulating the shadowed alleys of downtown Manhattan Memories of dream dulled in punk and rock clubs’ filthy bathrooms How much of what was is still now in the body in the bones of the body Calcium loss   teeth loose   wrist smaller so all bracelets     jangle  jangle
Lips call repeatedly a song whose words are traces of tenderness Yet, sung too softly as if only whispers could make the world hear.
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cacchieressa · 4 hours ago
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BAKED GOODS
Flour on the floor makes my sandals slip and I tumble into your arms.
Too hot to bake this morning but blueberries begged me to fold them
into moist muffins. Sticks of rhubarb plotted a whole pie. The windows
are blown open and a thickfruit tang sneaks through the wire screen
and into the home of the scowly lady who lives next door.  Yesterday, a man
in the city was rescued from his apartment that was filled with a thousand rats.
Something about being angry because his pet python refused to eat. He let the bloom
of fur rise, rise over the little gnarly blue rug, over the coffee table, the kitchen countertops
and pip through each cabinet, snip at the stumpy paper bags of sugar,
the cylinders of salt. Our kitchen is a riot of pots, wooden spoons, melted butter.
So be it. Maybe all this baking will quiet the angry voices next door, if only
for a brief whiff. I want our summers to always be like this—a kitchen wrecked
with love, a table overflowing with baked goods warming the already warm air. After all the pots
are stacked, the goodies cooled, and all the counters wiped clean—let us never be rescued from this mess.
--Aimee Nezhukumatathil
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mochiimoo · 6 hours ago
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@mooberrypies on bookstagram 🌸🌸🌸
top left: The Luncheon, Monet (1873)
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esstrauss · 7 hours ago
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Poem... “Breathe In The Stars”
The future is set
We cannot stop what the stars have already aligned for us
All we can do is continue to put one foot in front of the other
Hope we do not trip ourselves up
And if and when we do learn from the bruises
Breathe in what the stars have in store, fearlessly
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margot-suydam · 7 hours ago
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Ode to One Ancient Tree
Ode to One Ancient Tree
Poem a day #11 is a response to prompts from NaPoWriMo and Write Better Poetry: 1) Write a two-part poem, in the form of an exchange of letters. The first stanza (or part) should be in the form of a letter that you write either to yourself or to a famous fictional or historical person. The second part should be the letter you receive in response, and (2) write a “prime number ” poem. IRemember…
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frombehindthepen · 8 hours ago
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Stained
Stained #StainedGlass #Art #GlassArt #Windows
Image Credit: Paola No longer common the depth of distinct colors stained with new stories. I am fascinated by the delicate artistry and stories told through the meticulous details that go into the production of stained glass. There is something magical, majestic, ethereal and spiritual about the art and architecture of the wondrous stained creations of cut glass. They are truly something to…
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tabby2013 · 8 hours ago
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Poem of the Week: You Foolish Men by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz
Poem of the Week: You Foolish Men by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz
Welcome to Poem of the Week, an annual feature on this blog that celebrates National Poetry Month. Every Sunday, in the month of April, start the week off with an uplifting poem and discovery why poetry still matters. (more…)
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rjptalk · 17 hours ago
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SUBTLE AND NOT SO SUBTLE - POETRY
SUBTLE AND NOT SO SUBTLE – POETRY
National Poetry Month, Rich Paschall There seems to be a day, a week, or even a month for just about everything. The types of things for which mayors, governors, and even presidents are willing to present a proclamation seem a bit strange to me. Did you miss One Cent Day on April 1st?  No joke, it is a day to commemorate the history of the penny. I guess it doesn’t count for much…
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multiglory18 · 18 hours ago
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Days 7-10: Emoji Translation, Unanswered Questions, Photo or Picture, Lies and Literal Figure of Speech
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