#poetryfeelings

[bellethewinebae-blog]

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[weareboatsremember]

The world cracked open around that moment, and there is still a scar there, where I say 'I am afraid of the police' and you say 'You have no reason to be'. Maybe I laugh. Do I laugh?

#whiteprivilege #poetryfeelings

[bellethewinebae-blog]

she is a kind of light even the darkness is obsessed with. SCENT | neha dubey _________ #poetryofinstagram #poetrysite #poetryfeelings #poemsofig #artist #book #poet#writers #art #poet #poetry#poem #writer #book #writing#amwriting #poetry #art#author #poet #writerslife #music #ebook https://www.instagram.com/p/BrN4HXigGKO/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=10xokcxwpx83v

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[bellethewinebae-blog]

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[bellethewinebae-blog]

SCENT | neha dubey _________ #poetryofinstagram #poetrysite #poetryfeelings #poemsofig #artist #book #poet#writers #art #poet #poetry#poem #writer #book #writing#amwriting #poetry #art#author #poet #writerslife #music #ebook https://www.instagram.com/p/BqkQSEzAquB/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1xr5p8sebh05l

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[bellethewinebae-blog]

SCENT | neha dubey _________ #poetryofinstagram #poetrysite #poetryfeelings #poemsofig #artist #book #poet#writers #art #poet #poetry#poem #writer #book #writing#amwriting #poetry #art#author #poet #writerslife #music #ebook https://www.instagram.com/p/BqkPCHxgjA7/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=ugxffpgf89nm

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[weareboatsremember]

My vices are soft, my demons small. Lately, we all live together peacefully, sharing sweet potato curry and tales of first seeing palm trees. We walk together to the bus stop, boil water in the same blackened kettle. We are so harmonious that when new friends come to the house they make no mention of my sisters, even when we walk by their beds nestled on the bookcase. No one misses them. If on winter nights I hear them--my tiny, blurry vices--murmuring in the dark, I forget by morning, and in spring, we are wholly sweet together, gathering ferns and dandelions behind the house. Luckily, we are all small enough to hate each other and still love each other.

#poetryfeelings

[weareboatsremember]

Tri-Cities

When my grandmother arrived in Pasco in 1948, the river was the highest it had been in years, flooding so bad that the main roads were all awash. General Electric sent a car to take her from the train station to Richland and the car drove her up up up into the Horse Heaven Hills, into the dark. She was sure she was being kidnapped. This was a town the army built. This is where she built things she now forgets.

When my mother writes me in the Christmas letter she sends out for my grandmother, I am all academics. Where is my pop music, where is my bite?

#Poetryfeelings

[weareboatsremember]

You Start to Dream Terrifying Dreams

Before, it is like this.

There is a map of how to survive: fight or flight or filling your lungs before a dive or your hands around a cup of tea or the way you imagine the wheat in summer.

And then: you start to dream terrifying dreams.

You break all your fingers, slammed in the car door, and they take so long to heal that you forget how to type or scribble or button the top of your dress

or you are a sparrow with lion’s feet and you can neither dance nor fly  

or your body is an iceberg, terrifying blue and basking in the glow of wavelets against your sides, each brush of ocean a promise about crystals or floating

or your waiting as a William Kentridge sketch, imagining her eyes when she is gone, like a past life or a city where you went to forget who you were before.

You become a confused thing, all the matrixes of weight and absence and waiting, your broken fingers, your lion feet, your iceberg skin, your hand on the small of her back with no memory of putting it there.

#poetryfeelings

[weareboatsremember]

Translation

Though there's no such thing as a "self," I missed it—

the fiction of it and how I felt believing in it mildly

like a book an old love sent with an inscription

in his hand, whatever it meant,

After such knowledge, what forgiveness . . .

—the script of it like the way my self felt

learning German words by chance—Mitgefühl,

Unheimlichkeit—and the trailing off that happened

because I knew only the feelings, abstract

and international, like ghosts or connotations

lacking a grammar, a place to go:

this was the way my self felt when it started

falling apart: each piece of it clipped

from a garden vaguely remembered

by somebody unrecognizable—

such a strange bouquet that somebody sent

to nobody else, a syntax of blossoms.

DEIRDRE O'CONNOR

#poetryfeelings #womenartists

[weareboatsremember]

Those Of Us Who Think We Know

Those of us who think we know the same secrets are silent together most of the time, for us there is eloquence in desire, and for a while when in love and exhausted it's enough to nod like shy horses and come together in a quiet ceremony of tongues it's in disappointment we look for words to convince us the spaces between stars are nothing to worry about, it's when those secrets burst in that emptiness between our hearts and the lumps in our throats. And the words we find are always insufficient, like love, though they are often lovely and all we have - Stephen Dunn

#Poetryfeelings

[weareboatsremember]

The Sensible Girlfriend

Like shoes

she chose for comfort,

not for style,

that fit her contours

without chafe

or blistering

Here is sanity.

It took her years to arrive,

like an explorer

settling at last

into uneasy retirement,

a small cottage

at the edge of the sea.

How the breakers crash

against the underpinnings;

still, the walls hold firm.

Hearth blazing steadily,

she tries to warm to it

tells herself

she is mature now,

this is good.

The days of stalking,

done,

the rabid pulse,

the blood-drenched kisses,

all behind her now.

Wearied, finally,

of careless cruelties,

she will stay here,

grow old

  with you.

And, sensible,

lacking her gift

for self-deception,

you know she struggles

with devotion,

you listen as she

moans inside her dreams,

and watch, without remarking,

as she tracks the tap of high heels

just beyond the window,

their rhythm growing fainter

with each step.

-TERRY WOLVERTON

#poetryfeelings

[weareboatsremember]

sonnet despite

darling she said darling he said love is work draw me that triangle again tell me it’s the strongest shape you and me are always near an open window that’s three we expected firework but settled for romance in the shape of tuna melts we go away to try to miss us from a different angle I want that feeling of swallowing a big ripe beet want mine to bleed with yours that makes two he said yes two he said yes two

she said the third is all the nameless that keeps us rising despite despite

—OLIVER BENDORF

#poetryfeelings

[weareboatsremember]

I have a hard time with this thing writers always say: show, don’t tell. Like if we’re showing, we’re divine, and telling is for recipes or drunk driving convictions, like showing is the interior of a geode catching light in someone’s daughter’s palm and telling is a report card. Doesn’t showing always ask us to tell? I love you, Stay here, Not yet

The poem I would like to tell is you guiding seasons, confused animals, constellations, the way south. It is me with the repetition of the seasons.

#Poetryfeelings

[weareboatsremember]

(What comes first)

this is the tug before anything else, like ‘hello body, welcome to the world’

this is my tongue with hello

this is my hello before your ear

  this is my neck before black ice or sheet metal or nanotubes

  this is your hand carrying sound before memory

this is your hand directing my hello to your mouth

this is my hand between us

  this is what comes first

#Poetryfeelings

[weareboatsremember]

wednesday

#poetryfeelings