#can you call this a poem?

[theshalesky]

i still think about the day i read that poem out loud to the class. the teacher said choose a poem from this book and read it and put in emotion and bring it to life. i chose a poem the most beautiful of all and waited impatiently for my turn. expecting to be praised as always. when i stood in front of the class i was nervous, but i felt good. the poem was long and i kept reading the ball rang and i kept reading. no one said anything, so i didn't stop. when i finished, i wasn't aware of any mistake. it was only when my teacher thanked me that this feeling started to cave in: thank you, you chose a lovely poem. i left the classroom and this feeling kept growing. i did something wrong, of course. replaying the situation in my head i understood too late. they didn't want me to read for that long or i didn't read it well enough. probably one because of the other. and that's the worst part: not that i wasn't good for once. but that i didn't get it. that i kept going, thinking they liked me unaware of the obvious cues. no, that's not the worst part. it was a good poem, they liked the poem in itself. they just didn't like the way i read it - i ruined a beautiful thing. simply by touching it simply by giving all that i was because the truth is: not that i wasn't good enough it's that i'm something that will never be liked. i still think about the day i read that poem out loud to the class.

[imdepressedbutfine]

When you're with the people you love and you feel that warm swell in your chest and you want to tell them you love them, but you decide better of it. Not because they don't feel the same way, you know they do. Nor is it the fear of rejection or awkwardness. It's that contentment of knowing, or feeling the words on the tip of your tongue, that sweet in your chest. The peace of knowing. It's the peace of joy and love. Though, perhaps it's a little greedy, keeping such emotions to yourself. But why would one care in a moment like that? Why should they?

So this was a little something I wrote when I was with my siblings, and thought 'hey this could be nice' lol (please be a little gentle I'm young lol) but constructive criticism is very welcomed :]

[midnightdemonhunter]

I say, Then it’s not love anymore.

Michael says, It was love up to then though.

[chariotwaves]

How the scent of you caresses my skin

Just like you, so bright and warm

I see you thrive in the meadows of Demeter

My lovely Hyacinth

[i-am-not-a-twinkie]

Child of the sun

Who was shining and bright

and child of the moon

Who lived by his light

The sun who shone for all to see

And was deemed a radiant bloom

Who only saw his brilliant light

Reflected in the eyes of the moon

The moon with power other's feared

As strong as the will of the sea

Brought to his knees by the warmth of the sun

By his side was where he longed to be

People said the moon was cold

With no light of his own

The sun saw only beauty

In his soft and eerie glow

People feared the sun would burn

Or his light would blind them

The moon found joy in his bite

And vowed to stand behind him

Their endless dance through the sky

Was plain for all to see

The beauty and grace of a love

That was never meant to be

And yet in the rare twilight

The time they shared together

On mingling breath hushed whispers said

A promise made, to be forever

But the day came the sun shone too bright

And was snuffed out too soon

And without the sun's radiant light

The moon was gone too

[queen-of-hearts-and-words]

once i was told i was “being too much.”

but boldly i have come, and boldly i will go.

i will love largely, and i will cry loudly.

i will rejoice gladly, and mourn heavily.

my heart will soar, my lungs will fill.

my hands clasped, my fingers outstretched.

my eyes open wide, my cheeks pulled tight.

my scream deafening, my laughter inescapable.

i will not apologize for being too loud.

i will not apologize for being too much.

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

a lot of people carry around an assumption that a work of art which is “good” in certain ways is going to be received pleasurably (i’m using an extremely broad definition of pleasure here that encompasses things like art-induced moral discomfort or sadness don’t @ me) by, like, people at large. this comes up in two different areas of interest for me: on the one hand, People Having Takes On The Internet; on the other hand, discussions about pedagogy, particularly around writing. i have, i mean, a lot of different thoughts about this - still marveling over the interview with a book critic and harvard philosophy doctoral student i read where she casually espoused the belief that if people were simply taught better what makes art good they would like bad art less, which continues to strike me as one of the stupidest things i’ve ever seen a person i temporarily had a positive opinion of say - but like in pedagogical considerations for example something i had started to wonder about when i left the classroom was like… our writing instruction relied a lot on modeling. like, “notice how this published author does this thing; see how i try to do it also; now you try.” and i think that an unarticulated/unrecognized problem in that sort of modeling is that it kind of assumes the student finds pleasure in say a thorough visual description - that the student agrees “yes this part of what makes the book good.” (an adult can probably choose to learn craft lessons from a book they dislike - but i think that’s a tall order for a seven year old.) but not all of them do, and i picked description specifically because it’s something plenty of adult readers dislike as well - “too much description” is a common goodreads complaint! to me this is viscerally sort of insane because what are you even reading for then? but the answer is that they’re reading for different reasons than i am and i’ve never heard an argument i found compelling in favor of the idea that there are objectively better or worse things to seek from art (an area of life that quite literally doesn’t matter, which is precisely what gives it meaning, IMO). and also a surprising number of people very deep into art generally or of a particular kind seem ignorant of or opposed to the idea that, for example, someone who cares about a medium as an art form is probably going to have different criteria than a person who doesn’t care and just sometimes wants to go to the movies or see a book, and this is actually normal and not a problem to be solved. which i find strange. no real conclusion here except maybe an argument for spending more writing time in elementary school on things like learning what a complete sentence is and how to write one, which is a skill that will prove valuable regardless of personal tastes.

[ilovedthestars]

here's the thing. yes, some pieces of art are "better" than others. there are many criteria you can measure that with--technical skill, creativity, clarity, conceptual depth, successful execution of the artist's intentions, etc., and i do think it's useful to clarify which ones you're using as a measuring stick. but like, of course you can evaluate art. of course you can be critical (in the "art critic" sense) of art. (among other things, that's one of the most important ways to get better at making art yourself.)

however. when it comes down to evaluating what gets to count as art. what art even gets to have a seat at the table. i will go to bat for the thing that isn't as "good" every single time.

you can say you think a piece of art is bad. you can say you think it lacked technical skill, or clarity, or conceptual depth, and you consider those important elements of a successful work. i might even agree with you. but if you think that means it doesn't matter, someone is going to die on this hill and it isn't going to be me

[coffeexxcigarettes]

Pulse

-

My heart flutters

In my throat sometimes

Like a mourning dove locked

In a chest.

You caught me rocking

After vomiting

And told me to lie back.

Considering what I am,

And what I'd done,

I obeyed.

Your head was heavy on my chest.

I felt my pulse in my limbs.

"It is beating fast."

You mumbled,

And shifted to get comfortable.

A jolt shot through my chest.

Why have I never realized,

How much bigger you are than me?

But you stayed still.

I wondered in the quiet

And the dark

If you'd be able to hear how scared

My mourning dove was.

"It sounds like it's breaking."

You laughed softly,

Sending another zap through me.

"That. Did you feel it?"

Yeah.

"Are you okay?"

Yeah.

You drifted to sleep to my

Irregular heartbeat.

And I recalled quite suddenly

I'd been diagnosed

With broken heart syndrome

Before.

x

[ceruleantinted]

lonely is the muse is so so precious to me.

yeaaaaaars ago, i wrote a lil poem. obv words are not as golden and lyrical as h’s (they are a genius) but i felt like i heard my poem in a halsey song and that was so fucking unexpected. i don’t share my poems with any other soul but i wanted to for this one.

it’s now canon. lonely and forgotten is the muse.

[incomingplottwist]

crush its beaded body with no remorse.

wipe your hands, erase what you've done.

kill the ant and fate could not be kinder.

but kill the butterfly and it'd be cruel.

how you'd pity its colorful, crushed wings—

like shards of painted glass on pavement grey.

may lord have mercy on the pretty, because

the common don't deserve to live another day.

[skylarbee]

milex and a poem

i read this poem and shed a few tears because it reminded me so much of them, because it is so them... so i invite you to suffer with me.

Friends with No Benefits, Megan Fernandes, Poem-a-Day, 2023

I now replace desire  with meaning.  Instead of saying, I want you, I say,  there is meaning between us. Meaning can swim, has taken lessons from the river  of itself. Desire is air. One puncture  above a black lake and she lies flat. I now replace intensity with meaning. One is a black hole of boundless appetite, a false womb, another is a sentence. My therapist says children need a “father” for language  and a “mother” for everything else. She doesn’t get that it’s all language. There is no else.  Else is a fiction of life, and a fact of death. That night, we don’t touch.  We ruin nothing.  We get bagels in the morning before you leave on a train,  and I smoke a skinny cigarette and think  I look glam, like an Italian diva. You make a joke at my expense, which is not a joke, really,  but a way to say I know you.  I don’t feed on you. Instead, I watch you  like a faraway tree.  Desire loves the what if, the if only, the maybe in another lifetime.  She loves a parallel universe. Or seven.  Meaning knows its minerals, knows which volcanic magma belongs  to which volcanic fleet. Knows the earth has parents. That a person is raised.  It’s the real flirtation, to say, you are not a meal.  To say, I want you  to last. 

+

the author said this about it:

“This piece is about a friend. We drink martinis and talk poems all night. We have an energy easy to mistake for desire but that might instead mean something more earthbound. Desire is instructive. But she’s often instructing us toward some edge, toward some abyss. As I get older, I’m re-narrating the intense feelings I have for some people that don’t take the form of ravenous, cosmic, and consuming intimacies, but intentional, rooted, and durational ones. What’s better than the dumb luck of living at the same time as someone you truly admire? It’s so mortal and random. No cosmos could compete.”

[laneaconite]

Treatment

“Take this pill,” They say.

Take this pill and it should work

 In a month,

                    Three months,

                                            Six.

Take this pill,

And it will make you tired.

                                        They all make you tired,

Because they act on the brain, 

                                                  You see.

Take this pill,

“We’re sorry the others didn’t work.”

We will smile

                    Sympathetically.

                                                 We do care.

Take this

            Pill.

                  It will make you dizzy.

Take this

            Injection.

                           Since it is treatment resistant

Now.

It will hurt,

                 It will make you itch.

You can still keep taking the old ones,

                                                         In case they end up working

                                                                                                          Too.

Take this pill,

                      It should work in one month,

                                                                    Three months,

Six.

No, we don’t know

                               Why this is happening.

We don’t know

                     How to fix it.

Your blood screening was

                                           Normal.

Your CT scan was

                                Normal.

Take this pill.

-Lane Aconite,

March 5th, 2023

[samhaven]

Come sit with us, have a rest. You've earned it.

You're exactly where you need to be right now, so please, huddle by the fire and doze off. No matter how young you are, you've still been living for years. Exhausting, isn't it?

Rest for me 🌻

[fudgecake-charlie]

currently living a coming of age movie because I sent my apartment neighbour(s, there are two of them) a letter one night under their door to say "Hi, sometimes life is real hard but I got to hear you and your friends have genuine fun singing to music and playing your acoustic guitar, thank you for reminding me that there can be good things everywhere, have a good night"

and then they slipped a note under my door saying "thank you! we loved hearing from you! we were celebrating a birthday, our friend who plays guitar is very happy, we hope the music was good for you, have a good night as well" and now we are having a back and forth recommending songs to each other!

literally the coolest fucking thing ever i am glad strangers can be kind

[queen-of-hearts-and-words]

pomegranates and tomatoes

i left for college two years ago. i only come back for holidays and the odd weekend when i miss my father’s cooking and the smell of my mom’s shampoo. i know that whenever i do, i can be sure to find either a pomegranate or a tomato waiting for me.

i tried my first pomegranate after my best friend stopped talking to me in 10th grade. i used a knife to crack open the rough shell of the fruit, clawing the seeds out with my bare hands. i looked like i had murdered someone. but the raw act of scraping the juice out from under my fingernails was healing. my family knows this. and there will always be a pomegranate waiting for me when i come home.

i always eat the tomatoes off of my salads first. my dad showed me how he ate tomatoes when he was younger, with some salt and rolled up sleeves. now i bend over the sink, with a tomato as big as my palm, and a salt shaker on standby, and the memory of my father stuck in my head. my family knows this. and there will always be a tomato waiting for me when i come home.

i left for college two years ago. but i left behind a piece of myself. my family knows this. and they will always be there waiting for me when i come home.