#poetry

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— J. W. Goethe

[annasanthology]

[mournfulroses]

Nikita Gill, from Your Heart is the Sea: Poems; "The Anguish," originally published in 2018

[apoemaday]

Crows

by Mary Oliver

It is January, and there are crows like black flowers on the snow. While I watch, they rise and float toward the frozen pond, they have seen some streak of death on the dark ice. They gather around it and consume everything, the strings and the red music of that nameless body. Then they shout, one hungry, blunt voice echoing another. It begins to rain. Later, it becomes February, and even later, spring returns, a chorus of thousands. They bow, and begin their important music. I recognize the oriole. I recognize the thrush, and the mockingbird. I recognize the business of summer, which is to forge ahead, delicately. So I dip my fingers among the green stems, delicately. I lounge at the edge of the leafing pond, delicately. I scarcely remember the crust of the snow. I scarcely remember the icy dawns and the sun like a lamp without a fuse. I don’t remember the fury of loneliness. I never felt the wind’s drift. I never heard of the struggle between anything and nothing. I never saw the flapping, blood-gulping crows.

[weltenwellen]

Lindsay Tigue, from "Code"

[thepersonalquotes]

[chronic85doodler]

Pocketful of Stars

I carry a container full of stars in my pocket.

I hand them out to cashiers as the card processes. Like a little crow handing out shinies. Never know who needs a star to make their day.

Once while in the mall, I passed a perfume counter with a girl with sad eyes. I paused. No transaction. No reason to stop to interact, but those dark sad eyes.

I walk back and hold out the container, tiny knickknacks tinkling in the motion.

“Hello, would you like a star?”. It’s awkward. But very little grace is needed to offer something pretty and shiny.

“Why?” Her response is unexpected. Intense. Shocked. Staring with import at the container.

“Just a cute thing I do. Never know who needs a star.”

I feel sheepish. Usually it’s a quick interaction, a star offered as a receipt is passed. Too quick to process the idiosyncrasy of the moment. Too sudden to not be excited for a cheap little star made out of stone.

“My best friend just died.”

Her face is lowered, sad eyes looking at the stars in the myriad of hues.

“She had an entire sleeve of stars. Tattooed all up her arm…”. She traced an invisible path on her skin with delicate fingers.

She looked at those stars and the strange giver with significance. She chose her star of onyx and asked for a hug, happily given.

Coincidence. Miracle. Serendipity. Mundane magic. Whatever it was.

You never know who needs a star.

[emotionalwords]

[vel0ci]

Well said, I needed this reminder.

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— Friedrich Nietzsche

[mournfulroses]

Kate Braverman, from her poetry collection titled Lullaby for Sinners; Poems; "She,"

[letsbelonelytogetherr]

— Excerpt from a Poem; Vaishnavi Sharma

[princess-of-purple-prose]

[ID: A poem split into two columns which can be read three ways. The columns are titled penelope and odysseus. They read:

penelope:

dearest, time rolls on and our son grows taller, and i realize that we were just children when we married. i'm a woman, now- i want to know, what do you look like with gray in your hair? i imagine you still smell like fresh earth. i imagine you're still out there.

odysseus:

i remember you and your voice is in the sea, and this has been twenty years; playing with love, with fire, going off to war still holding your flowers. a man, a promise. you must be so beautiful; do you have laugh lines? now i hope you still pick flowers- hyacinths, bluebells. you're still waiting. i'm still waiting.

Together, they read:

dearest, / i remember you and time rolls on and / your voice is in the sea, and our son grows taller, and / this has been twenty years; i realize that we were / playing with love, with fire, just children / going off to war when we married. i'm / still holding your flowers. a woman, / a man, a promise. now- / you must be so beautiful; i want to know, / do you have laugh lines? what do you look like / now with gray in your hair? / i hope you still pick flowers- i imagine you still smell like / hyacinths, bluebells. fresh earth. i imagine / you're still waiting. you're still out there. / i'm still waiting. End ID]

twenty years across the sea

[mournfulroses]

Kate Braverman, from her poetry collection titled Lullaby for Sinners; Poems; "Journey/Prayer," (edited)

[writing-is-a-martial-art]

truly some people have no genre savviness whatsoever. A girl came back from the dead the other day and fresh out of the grave she laughed and laughed and lay down on the grass nearby to watch the sky, dirt still under her nails. I asked her if she’s sad about anything and she asked me why she should be. I asked her if she’s perhaps worried she’s a shadow of who she used to be and she said that if she is a shadow she is a joyous one, and anyway whoever she was she is her, now, and that’s enough. I inquired about revenge, about unfinished business, about what had filled her with the incessant need to claw her way out from beneath but she just said she’s here to live. I told her about ghosts, about zombies, tried to explain to her how her options lie between horror and tragedy but she just said if those are the stories meant for her then she’ll make another one. I said “isn’t it terribly lonely how in your triumph over death nobody was here to greet you?” and she just looked at me funny and said “what do you mean? The whole world was here, waiting”. Some people, I tell you.