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Ilya Kaminsky, ‘Dancing in Odessa’, Dancing in Odessa

[Text ID: “It was April. The sun washed the balconies, April.”]

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Vladimir Nabokov, letter to his wife Véra (1925), Letters to Véra

[Text ID: “That’s all, my tender one, my inexpressible delight, Oh yes: I forgot to say that I love you..”

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April

by Mary Oliver

I wanted to speak at length about the happiness of my body and the delight of my mind for it was April, a night, a full moon and --

but something in myself or maybe from somewhere other said: not too many words, please, in the muddy shallows the

Frogs are singing.

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Come to us, dear poet, with April, with the dawn, with the spring, with the songs of the birds.

Victor Hugo, from a letter to Alphonse Esquiros written c. March 1853

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several hundred pages into nabokov’s letters to véra I start to think I’m becoming immune to gasping and giggling every time he writes her something affectionate and then he ends a letter with “I kiss you on the clavicle, my bird” and its back to square one all over again

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um. was anyone gonna tell me carmen maria machado not only writes poetry but also follows me on grieftolight???????? HELLO?????????

PUBLISHED POETRY WRITER CARMEN MARIA MACHADO ?

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PUBLISHED POETRY WRITER CARMEN MARIA MACHADO ?

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LITTLE FOREST (2018) dir. Yim Soon-rye

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“I can’t write, I’m desperate for solitude with you. All the rest is dark, boring, you-less.”

— Vladimir Nabokov, from Letters to Véra tr. by Olga Voronina & Brian Boyd

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“What makes a poem a poem, finally, is that it is unparaphrasable. There is no other way to say exactly this; it exists only in its own body of language, only in these words. I may try to explain it or represent it in other terms, but then some element of its life will always be missing. It’s the same with painting. All I can say of still life must finally fall short; I may inventory, weigh, suggest, but I cannot circumscribe; some element of mystery will always be left out. What is missing is, precisely, its poetry.”

— Mark Doty, from Still Life With Oysters and Lemon

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“From the River to the Sea.” A Poem by Samer Abu Hawwash, translated by Huda Fakhreddine

every street, every house, every room, every window, every balcony, every wall, every stone, every sorrow, every word, every letter, every whisper, every touch, every glance, every kiss, every tree, every spear of grass, every tear, every scream, every air, every hope, every supplication, every secret, every well, every prayer, every song, every ballad, every book, every paper, every color, every ray, every cloud, every rain, every drop of rain, every drip of sweat, every lisp, every stutter, every yamma, mother, every yaba, father, every shadow, every light, every little hand that drew in a little notebook a tree or house or heart or a family of a father, a mother, siblings, and pets, every longing, every possibility, every letter between two lovers that arrived or didn’t arrive, every gasp of love dispersed in the distant clouds, every moment of despair at every turn, every suitcase on top of

every closet, every library, every shelf, every minaret, every rug, every bell toll in every church, every rosary, every holy praise, every arrival, every goodbye, every Good Morning, every Thank God, every ‘ala rasi, my pleasure, every hill ‘an sama’i, leave me alone, every rock, every wave, every grain of sand, every hair-do, every mirror, every glance in every mirror, every cat, every meow, every happy donkey, every sad donkey’s gaze, every pot, every vapor rising from every pot, every scent, every bowl, every school queue, every school shoes, every ring of the bell, every blackboard, every piece of chalk, every school costume, every mabruk ma ijakum, congratulations on the baby, every y ‘awid bi-salamtak, condolences, every ‘ayn al- ḥasud tibla bil-‘ama, may the envious be blinded, every photograph, every person in every photograph, every niyyalak, how lucky, every ishta’nalak, we’ve missed you, every grain of wheat in every bird’s gullet, every lock of hair, every hair knot, every hand, every foot, every football, every finger, every nail, every bicycle, every rider on every bicycle, every turn of air fanning from every bicycle, every bad joke, every mean joke, every laugh, every smile, every curse, every yearning, every fight, every sitti, grandma, every

sidi, grandpa, every meadow, every flower, every tree, every grove, every olive, every orange, every plastic rose covered with dust on an abandoned counter, every portrait of a martyr hanging on a wall since forever, every gravestone, every sura, every verse, every hymn, every ḥajj mabrur wa sa ‘yy mashkur, may your ḥajj and effort be rewarded, every yalla tnam yalla tnam, every lullaby, every red teddy bear on every Valentine’s, every clothesline, every hot skirt, every joyful dress, every torn trousers, every days-spun sweater, every button, every nail, every song, every ballad, every mirror, every peg, every bench, every shelf, every dream, every illusion, every hope, every disappointment, every hand holding another hand, every hand alone, every scattered thought, every beautiful thought, every terrifying thought, every whisper, every touch, every street, every house, every room, every balcony, every eye, every tear, every word, every letter, every name, every voice, every name, every house, every name, every face, every name, every cloud, every name, every rose, every name, every spear of grass, every name, every wave, every grain of sand, every street, every kiss, every image, every eye, every tear, every yamma, every yaba, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, every name, all…

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May Sarton, The Journals of May Sarton, vol. I

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happy i wanted you warm and close as fresh laundry and here we are tuesday

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Marina Tsvetaeva, excerpt from Poem of the End, Selected Poems (trans. Elaine Feinstein, with Angela Livingstone) [ID'd]

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NEW OCEAN VUONG NOVEL!!!!!!!!!

YES!!!!!! he said this one took something from him he doesn’t think he’ll ever get back so. wow

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ocean vuong finished writing his 2nd novel lets fucking go!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!