#quarantine poetry

[junflower123]

One of the worst things we have done is deemed mask wearing as punishment for being sick We don’t like visual reminders  That’s why we tell the immunocompromised to just stay at home!

Out of sight, out of mind They can die so we can all dine inside! What a noble sacrifice (that they are being forced to make)!

[lifeinpoetry]

When I lay myself down to sleep, now, I pray I will dream of kindness given and received, I pray to the coils and meats of my brain to be healed of my disbelief in my average goodness.

— Sharon Olds, from "Narcissus in Quarantine," Balladz

[rnafeo]

Who we are when we die may matter more than who we were as the living.

Elisa Gonzales / John Everett Millais / Peter Paul Rubens and Jan Brueghel the Elder / The Narcissist Cookbook / Naethan Apollo / Fionna and Cake / Emily Dickinson / Madilyn Mei

[sanddollarpoems]

I feel it closing in

With every ping of my phone

Another friend wanting to talk

Or hang out

Or grab drinks

And I get it, this is what we do now

As a culture

This is how we "society"

But my introvert ass wants bed and a book

And I don't want to talk

Or be friends

Or exist

For a couple of months at least

God, I think I miss 2020

[poetrythreesixfive]

The Great Indoors

To thrive in The Great Indoors, one must learn

to live boldly, daringly, unburdened by the sad

shackles that temper lesser souls, for happiness

requires that we do what needs to be done

first, one must learn to swing from the rafters,

to hurl oneself fully and heroically from one

high beam to another; if no rafters are available,

feel free to tear out the ceiling until they are clear

secondly, one must not be inconvenienced by

windows, so smash them out with whatever

solid objects are at hand; books, vases, and fine

sculptures will do, and in a pinch, try furniture

next, slide down any and all bannisters, and in

the case of living in some deplorable dwelling

where no bannisters are to be found, employ

a laundry basket to sled down the stairs at will

running is essential, around in circles and down

hallways, with the addition of screaming and

howling at every juncture; and jumping too

should be added, for obstacles will be expected

hunting for food will be necessary, as always,

and can be found in the usual hideaways, but

forget not to fill the tubs with drinking water

and to provide a helmet or coconut for a scoop

whatever tasty morsels are discovered should be

stashed in a clandestine location and protected

with booby traps; a water bucket over a doorway

is foolproof; use projectiles whenever possible

finally, shelter is essential in these wild times,

and building a fort using couch cushions, chairs,

and other sturdy shapes will assure you of safety

from marauders who might think to harm you

don’t forget to include the dog and cat, for they

will naturally take sides in any skirmishes, and

if the neighbors want to join in, make sure that

all secret passwords are secure and up to date

if parents or authority figures get involved and

punishment is threatened, deny everything and

blame it on pirates or raiders; remember, there is

nothing more noble than a sworn pact of secrecy

in all of these escapades, be sure to take time to

read books, at night by flashlight under cover,

and by daytime curled up in the warm glow of

a sunbeam shining through a broken window.

-GeorgeFilip

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

A poet RIP.

After testing positive with COVID, Patricia Horan, the poet, passed away.

Below is her final poem, written with insistence and ferocity via text from her hospital bed according to her friend Elizabeth Sabo.

Notes on a Stay in a Hospital Quarantine Cell

© Patricia G. Horan :: December 27, 2020

“I swallow my pride and it tastes like honey and salt.

The air has embraced my private body and has approved, and it quietly rejoices in its revelations and the liberation of its childlike spills and neediness. How I reach to love it suddenly, this stranger I’ve kept in a fifties New Jersey suitcase, only removing it for one afternoon on a nude fire island beach.

Now it is truly liberated in a small windowless quarantine room in North Carolina.

The machines behind me beep, shining little christmas trees, watching my pulses, systems, and disturbances like grandmothers, occasionally clucking, unfashionably faithful through the night. I am pinned head to toe to a proud family of counters, weighers, and witnesses. This little womb and its divine protocols.

Shame is peeled from the human body when the body is wet with sweet tears and shocking love. It has suckers like snails and they make marks. The shameless body houses the soul proudly instead of shrouding it.

My mother tells me I began to walk on my first birthday. Today I took steps alone from the commode to the bed, to the applause of my caregiver. Eighty years has incensed up in a laughing swirl of smudge smoke. A laughing swirl of smudge smoke and ageless birthday courage.

Echoing a hated preachment, I see that my life is just where it belongs, that mistakes are potholes filled in with diamonds.

If this dream goes away in the glare and blare of rough reality I will lovingly remember it the way I recall my dying mother squeezing my hand that is now identical to hers. My tenderness spills over in tears of recognition and reconciliation.

Message from a Quarantine Room.

Little womb of a room.”

[haveyoureadthispoem-poll]

“...enough of the high / water, enough sorrow, enough of the air and its ease, / I am asking you to touch me.”

Read it here | Reblog for a larger sample size!

[lontanodalpanicoo]

Blood is screaming inside my veins.

Another morbid thought floats inside my brain.

Why am I still alive?

Will I ever be 25?

[lil-impact-wrench]

Flight

countless years

an adult lifetime spent

huddling in a lightless pit

dug by my own hands

a prison with bars

crafted from my fears

surer than steel

darker than despair

none came to rescue me

but they sat vigil

waiting for me to emerge

no hands pulled me out

but they reached out

waiting for me to grab on

when I awoke

moving from stasis

the grandiosity of life

overwhelmed my senses

I had learned to move but

ran screaming

from the joyous vigilant

ran screaming

from the kind hands

ran screaming

from hearts that touched mine

ran screaming

from my deeper self

inhabiting with calmness

breathing with sagacity

this unfettered world

skills I have yet to achieve

but there is a trick to

harnessing the move-by-wire

system of a traumatized soul

shifting the flow of its

kinetic panic

and now I run screaming

towards shared joy

run screaming

towards kindness

run screaming

towards unknowable hearts

run screaming

towards my treasures

fear still pulls

my eyes screwed shut

but I run regardless

my body senses

the cliffs of Mount Desert Island

slick granite and

Ellsworth Schist

fifteen foot fog masking

the Atlantic roar

like staring into

the periphery of the world

staring into

infinite possibilities

staring into

the ugliest of your inner truths

staring into

the face of a god

and I do not slow, I

leap

heartfirst

and feel it touch

down upon another cliff

again I leap, and

again, and realize

if I just keep leaping

from abyssal cliffs

it is almost

like flying

[malaisequotes]

“How are you inspiring greatness today? We have a cure for your cabin fever. Pandemic dial-in town hall TONIGHT! As you know, many people are struggling.”

First Lines of Emails I've Received While Quarantining by Jessica Salfia

[essektheylyss]

I'm not gonna lie, the Trigun-Time War developments are so funny to me because I'm just like, "what do you mean everyone and their mom who existed on the internet in 2020 (aka the entire world) hasn't read This Is How You Lose The Time War."

[lifeinpoetry]

Sometimes I sleep with a different man in my sleep every night. Or maybe I am sleeping with God. Or maybe I am some form of God, sleeping each night with a different mortal man, I who was always so faithful, I who love faithfulness.

— Sharon Olds, from "Quarantine Fast," Balladz

[britneyshakespeare]

you know what it is. i talk about how vain he is and how he only talks about himself and that is the impression a lot of people have of him and it is the impression i favor leaning towards. he has a very coded way of self-disclosure; he often seems like he's trying to impress people but i know him to be not-the-most-assured in a lot of ways. when i first complimented him on his poetry and told him how much i liked a few pieces (and i loved some of what i read before i knew his last name, so when i read his poetry i did not assume the person whose poetry i so loved was, well, that retired male model i met in passing every now and then). when i told him that. he was very moved by it.

and i do talk about how vain he is; i do say he only talks about himself; but every now and then when he does say something about me it is not at all hidden that he does admire me. some of what he says that seems to coded to impress me or to get my validation, i know he is doing this towards me because he thinks im this smart poetry girl. and i am? i am that, he's not wrong. i think it makes me feel hopeless to think that he really does respect me and care what i think of him because i'd rather he didn't. i'd rather him be this charming but shallow pretty boy which i think he has been seen as by a lot of people throughout his life. despite that he is hardworking, despite that he has (or at least tries very hard to have) an intellectual side. perhaps what he says about himself is so often coded to please me even while it is fishing for my attention, and i want to see that as a reflection of his own self-regard but i don't know that it is.

i don't know that it's not, but i don't know that it is either and as neither of us is very frequently vulnerable with the other, it's not fair for me to say which is the case. or even that there's a "which" like it can't be both. i don't know that he admires me; i don't know that he sees me as this girl who is (or at least used to be) very charmed by him. i do know that he always comes to me and asks me about poetry because as far as he's told me, i'm the only one who has ever cared about his. for all i know that could also be bullshit, but then why should i assume it is either? i'm quite unfair to him in my assessments of him. i do have to admit, he has never actually seemed to have a disrespectful or unfair assessment of me.

[opheliapenning]

Quarantined Freedom

a little poem that i wrote during the height of lockdowns in my town; a time when escapism was a need, not a want 

(August 23rd, 2021)

[jackredfieldwasmyjacob]

i just wrote my first cuarteto and redondilla :)

[yoursecretmoon]

drawing stars in the air