#patty dickson pieczka

[tunisian]

i am the ocean; the earth; whatever dies for you

pedro salinas tr. by ruth katz crispin, the voice I owe to you / patty dickson pieczka, autumn / louise glück, marathon / dulce maría loynaz tr. by james o'connor, absolute solitude / vladimir nabokov, in a letter to his wife véra / c.t. salazar, headless john the baptist hitchhiking / sara shagufta tr. by sascha aurora akhtar, how solitary is the moon / vladimir nabokov, ada, or ardor / alice notley, the black trailer

[oldwinesoul]

I carry your breath in my hands like warm sun at dusk. Your laughter vines through my hair, roots growing into my heart.

Patty Dickson Pieczka, “Autumn”, Beyond the Moon's White Claw

[rustbeltjessie]

Poetry asks 20 & 30!!

20. a poem about your favourite season

I carry your breath in my hands like warm sun at dusk. Your laughter vines through my hair, roots growing into my heart.

Stay with me while the forest rings its small brass bells, and the lake reflects the oracle

of October’s bronze mirror, candling golds and russets of evening’s wild dance.

Hold to our branch and whisper your song of riffling leaves before wind clips our stems

to whirl us back to earth in our separate turns.

We have only

until the moon blinks.

—Patty Dickson Pieczka, “Autumn”

30. recommend any poem you want that’s not covered by the above prompts

People, the ghosts down in North-of-the-South aren’t see-through

They don’t wear nightgowns or whisper or sing or want hazy things from the ones of us who are living. They have skin, bones, people. They’re short in stature and they don’t walk through walls. They come in our houses

by kicking down doors, wearing porkpie hats and smoking those My Father cigars. Yellow sweat stains on their sleeveless undershirts, my people. I’m sure there are other kinds of ghosts other places,

sad angels wearing bloomers and fanning their wings, but here their faces are made of gristle and their eyes red from too much Thunderbird. They want to steal our valuables, mess shit up, drop a match and burn

down the house. I don’t know any other way to say it, people. They walk right into our kitchens without being invited, tracking mud, lifting the fish by the tail out of the fryer and stuffing it in a cloth sack the color of a potato

just pulled out of the ground, and if there was a potato pulled fresh out of the ground they’d take that too. Their pee sizzles when it hits the floor. They don’t hear prayers or heed four-leaf clovers. We have to give

our bodies to the task. I mean we push back, people. Harder than day labor. Harder than shoving a bull out of the cow paddock. Two bulls. We have to say leave my goddamned house. Go, motherfucker.

My fucking house. Shouting while pushing, like breech birth, or twins. They slap on that corpse-smelling aftershave and come calling, holding a bouquet of weeds. They want our whiskey, our gravy, our honey, our combs, our bees.

—Diane Seuss, “People, the ghosts down in North-of-the-South aren’t see-through”

[indecisivegloom]

[weltenwellen]

Patty Dickson Pieczka, from “Autumn”, Beyond the Moon’s White Claw 

[kyoukamybeloved]

quotes and lyrics that make me think of asheiji:

I was in pain putting this together

creds:

Herakles - Euripides// art by @ana--pudim// Seventy years of sleep - Nikka Ursula// art by @edamammy// writing prompts for the broken-hearted - Eden Robinson// the Great War - Taylor Swift// ivy - Taylor Swift// autumn - Patty Dickson Pieczka// art by @bigansa// good light - Andrea Gibson// Euripides - Anne Carson// art by @ana--pudim// peace - Taylor Swift// sweet nothing - Taylor Swift// the fear - Clementine Von Radics// art by @shira47a// king the colour of space/tower of molasses & marrow// art by @ginkohs// love letter from Zelda Fitzgerald// banana fish// Eurydice - Sarah Ruhl// banana fish

[alas-pooryorick]

                    

On Friendship, Falling in Love and Falling Apart, pt. 2 (pt. 1, pt. 3, pt. 4)

Ode to Friendship, Noor Hindi

The Truth Has Three Sides, Sabrina Benaim

I've Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth (Summer Song), Fall Out Boy

Autumn, Patty Dickson Pieczka

Unknown

Unknown

Nature Poem, Chen Chen

Planet of Love, Richard Siken

Ever Yours: The Essential Letters, Vincent Van Gogh

Just Like Heaven, The Cure

Speeches for Dr. Frankenstein, Margaret Atwood

The Dialogue of Desire and Guilt, J.D. McClatchy

Someplace Like Montana, Ada Limón

Cold Solace, Anna Belle Kaufman

Fleabag (2016-2019)

Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out, Richard Siken

Your Love Finds Its Way Back, Sierra DeMulder

The Diaries of Katherine Mansfield

Moments, Mary Oliver

[ineveryspaceandtime]

__________________________

Jorge Luis Borges, "Two English Poems" // Tyler Knott Gregson, "You giggle. . ." // Victor Hugo, "Marie Tudor" // Patty Dickson Pieczka, "Autumn" // Mary Oliver, "I have just said. . ." // Susan Glickman, "Poem about your laugh" // Rabindranath Tagore, "Lover's Gifts XVIII: Your Days" // Harold Hart Crane, "Exile"

[coffeebirbsdarkacademia]

I carry your breath in my hands like warm sun at dusk. Your laughter vines through my hair, roots growing into my heart - Patty Dickson Pieczka, "Autumn", Beyond the Moon's White Claw

[heroarchives]

Kurogiri is Shirakumo Oboro

Patty Dickson Pieczka, from “Autumn”, Beyond the Moon’s White Claw / Anaïs Nin, from The Diary of Anaïs Nin

[wolverton]

I carry your breath in my hands like warm sun at dusk. Your laughter vines through my hair, roots growing into my heart.

(Patty Dickson Pieczka, from "Autumn", Beyond Moon's White Claw)

A FRIEND BY ANY OTHER NAME

by wolverton

T | Gimli son of Glóin/Legolas Greenleaf | 5+1 | 5.4k

SUMMARY

The five times Gimli and Legolas' bond strengthened, and the one time they fell off the precipice of friendship into the deeper waters of something else.

(NOTABLE) TAGS

5+1 Things, Developing Friendships, Eventual Romance, Fluff

READ ON AO3 !

↓ Excerpt under the cut ↓

As Gimli grappled with the foreign feeling of being at a loss for words, fleeting images of Aragorn comforting the fallen Boromir flittered through his thoughts. With no wiser words to conjure, he settled upon a gruff response: "Ach, leave the business of kissing the departed to Aragorn, Legolas—I still have ample time upon this earth!"

Legolas' merry laughter, seemingly undisturbed by Gimli's grumbling, rang out like a clear woodland brook. "Shall I then bestow upon you a kiss reserved for the living?" he quipped, his eyes sparkling.

[devilbrakers]

true blue - boygenius / threading - yehuda amichai / autumn - patty dickson pieczka / song #3 - stone sour / this is how you lose the time war - amal el-mohtar and max gladstone / inside father's pocket - martha rhodes / post by leneemusing / writing prompts for the broken-hearted - eden robinson

there must be more than blood - gray x dante

inspo!!!!

[202027]

Your laughter vines through my hair, roots growing into my heart.

Patty Dickson Pieczka, from “Autumn”, Beyond the Moon’s White Claw 

[finishinglinepress]

FLP POETRY BOOK OF THE DAY: Fukushima Dreams by Andrea Moorhead

TO ORDER GO TO: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/fukushima-dreams-by-andrea-moorhead/

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Andrea Moorhead was born in 1947 near Niagara Falls, New York. She spent her adolescence in Connecticut then went to Pennsylvania where she studied philosophy and French at Chatham University. She moved to upstate New York with her husband Robert, where, in 1972, they founded the international poetry journal Osiris, one of the first journals in the United States to publish poems in foreign languages. In 1976, the Moorheads settled in Deerfield, Massachusetts, where they taught at Deerfield Academy for thirty-eight years. Since their retirement, they have been involved in graphic design and editorial work.

Moorhead writes both in English and in French. Her most recent collections are The Carver’s Dream (Red Dragonfly Press) and À l’ombre de ta voix(Le Noroît). Her translations of Francophone poetry include the work of Abderrahmane Djelfaoui, Élise Turcotte, Hélène Dorion, and Marie-Christine Masset. Visual poetry is a special love; her photos appear in the publications of Edizioni Anterem in Italy and in numerous international literary journals.

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR Fukushima Dreams by Andrea Moorhead

One can almost feel the light brushing of an angel’s wing over the pages of Fukushima Dreams. Andrea Moorhead’s elegant approach to this harsh topic highlights her subtle and graceful expertise with language. Fragile as crystal, detailed as a pointillist painting, her insight transports the reader to that place and time where “air displaced creates a ripple along the seam of the day / light shattering pupils and the only way to restore balance / unknown ash is wavering along the horizon / glinting as snow on a sudden night / arms open to the darkness but catching on the branches.” The poet relays the feeling of these events with the empathy of one who had been there, “skin glowing at night / to the sound of dreams scraping the sky bare.”

–Patty Dickson Pieczka

Andrea Moorhead’s poems are inventive and even startling within their tranquil pacing. When we think of Fukushima, we evoke the nuclear disaster, but Fukushima Dreams is not static in that sense. Throughout this book, Moorhead creates a three-dimensional context, one deftly populated by living things where “snow fallen in your hair / creates a nest for the moon and stars.” While the nuclear disaster remains ever-present, we are not bludgeoned by that horrific event; rather, it is echoed with precision throughout these poems: “the blue flowers you gathered yesterday / are still on the table / despite your absence.” Enjoy the eloquent mythology that is Fukushima Dreams.

–Alan Britt, author of Optical Illusions, Towson University

Please share/please repost [PROMO]#flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #poetry

[fluttering-slips]

Lost Poems When fire pours from a thimble in the sun, and my needle pokes embers, raising sparks; when diamonds spawn on dirty dishes, struggling to slither upstream to the faucet, I glimpse the unwritten poems.

They are all around me, flicking their wings along my peripheral vision. But there is no time to write. I sort through paint samples, discard a swatch of moonlight. Patty Dickson Pieczka

[weltenwellen]

Patty Dickson Pieczka, from “Autumn”, Beyond the Moon's White Claw