#e.c. poetry

[e-c-poetry]

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[wildfl0werssslr]

and the waves ravethey can't brake, as we rake

we've been drowning, carried away

couldn't stay in the midst of fray

the moon lights upon

us in your chimney, gray

won't take that name away

its memories flow

breaking bleak

you're my beautiful wildflower

but now's my adieu

sorry dear

can't stay here, let go.

— e.c., drown

[vampirecrew]

In The Winter

I’ll look for sound of rain

I’ll listen for the clouds

As I Softly drain away

//

Your cold feet placed

So gently to help sooth

The soft rain sounds

Not quite in time

//

I miss the coffees in

The chill in the morning air

While you struggle to light

A cigarette, completely unaware

How speechless I am by you

//

But

//

Like fog in the morning

Your memory lingers

The smell of your hair

Still on my fingers

From the last dawn

With you in my arms

Never to repeat

//

A.C

[ka-tet-writes]

Intense moon exposed, evening engulf my world, cascade in silent dark, watchful of tender absence.

Refrigerator Poetry

- E.C

[uwmspeccoll]

Staff Pick of the Week

Louey Chisholm compiled over 200 poems and an additional twenty cradle verses into The Golden Staircase Poems for Children. Chisholm’s goal when creating this book was to inspire children to not only enjoy poetry, but to pass it onto future generations, and wanted every school to have it on their shelves.

The first American edition was published in 1906. This edition published a year later features eight illustrations by English artist Minnie Dibdin Spooner which were printed by Stoddart and Malcolm in Edinburgh. The book itself was published in New York by G. P. Puntam’s Sons and in Edinburgh by T.C. and E.C. Jack. 

I was drawn initially to the book because of its dark blue cloth cover, gold-stamped on all sides with ornate Art Nouveau floral designs, which I saw almost everyday as I walked by. When I finally pulled it off the shelf, I was equally struck by Spooner’s colorful and playful illustrations and just had to share. The book forms part of our Historical Curriculum Collection and was a gift from our friends Megan Holbrook and Eric Vogel.

View more Staff Picks.

-- Sarah W., Special Collections Undergraduate Intern

[musingsofadrunkensailor]

beautiful thorns

Almost like gravity, something pulls me to them. Not the flowers, the petals, no. The thorns, I'm drawn to them. So small, intimate, a reminder in blood that one is alive with a heart that beats, feels, remembers.

Perhaps that's why I love so dearly that which brings about pain.

[misseuropadiscodancer]

I would forget so many things;

The moaning wind, and rain,

Uncanny sounds of ghostly hands

At door and window pane.

I would forget the perished leaves

And grass, dismantled trees—

Old loves and hopes, the youth of me

That passed away with these.

But when I see November come,

How shall I then forget;

The other years return with her—

Remembrance and regret.

- November by E. C.

[boom-goes-the-canon]

For Poetry Smash Week! Jehan and Bahorel liberate some lobsters.

[hhowlite]

i keep having dreams about her finding out. surely a product of guilt that has embedded itself deeply in my subconscious, a side effect of knowing you’re doing something wrong yet being unable to stop.

i spend early mornings watching the the sunrise through the cracks in the blinds, and studying the glow-in-the-dark stars against our popcorn ceiling. my mom reminds me to be careful and i tell her that we are. aren’t we?

stolen touches in the kitchen and secret kisses at the dinner table, cut short by the sound of feet on the stairs; hushed voices and whispered confessions, warm hands on hot skin behind closed doors, my face pressed into the pillow and your lips against my neck. it’s only a matter of time before they find out.

— e.c. (nov 2020), november

[aetherwhispers]

Writing is hard now; tongue-tied scatter-thoughts fizzling before the effort is given. Drawing is hard now; linear scribbles connect dots between paper planets. Reading is hard now; my eyes skimming across a language foreign overnight. Untangling the cotton fiber white noise noose around my brain, is my new hobby.

[lachryprose]

Beyond expectance, you came to me

Clad in utter complexity

How could I get inside that heart of yours?

//

But this, I’m sure of

I want to undress your sophistication

//

Let me see which one is true

In your table of convictions

For yours is a veil 

I could not pierce through

//

Oh yes you are

An enigma I could not translate into words

But one I wish to unravel

In gradual worship

27

July 12th, 2018 // 5:55 PM

[e-c-poetry]

healing feels too much like breaking

I don’t want to face it anymore

at least when I pretend it’s okay

it feels like nothing

e.c.

[wildfl0werssslr]

I'm a book, if you want to open and read me. But I'm particularly a literature book, a novel or a poetry book. You will understand me, if you read me and try to understand the metaphors or symbols in my words. Many have given up to know me. Some are confused when they try to understand me. Some only judge me from the cover. Can you decode me?

— e.c.

[vampirecrew]

Unsent Messages

I’m sorry for the pain I caused

I can’t change the mistakes

But I can spend every hour

Putting back the pieces misplaced

The tears that traced the outline of

Your face saved,

not to waste

Building your heart back like

A puzzle piece

Starting with the edges

Building in with gentle fingers

Not to break the imagine

I’ve loved you more with every day

With every scar here to stay

I’ll be here. You’ll be there

No where near where we should be

I don’t know how

To say this to you

I don’t know how to not be true

To who I am or what I feel

If you ever see this please

Remember

I love you.

In every universe

A.C

[sanctamater]

FROM MOTHER.  she had her mother's patience the gift of understanding  the curse of holding on too long planting gardens in graves. r.h sin.

[saintsebastiensbf]

mitski, strawberry blond / e.c., love freely / chen chen, when i grow up i want to be a list of further possibilities / hanya yanagihara, a little life / interview with cohen by kris kirk, poetry commotion, June 18, 1988 / gabriela mistral, from a letter to doris dana