"Since syntax" "grading sibilances into proper whistle" SUCH an honour to receive this well-crafted poem from my dear dear friend ❤️‍🔥

reading The Translator's Invisibility by Lawrence Venuti... and translating Rilke this new year (same old same old)

The title of a prose poem by Derrick Austin: A Question about Art

Rome from the Pincio Camille Corot 1826-1827 Oil on canvas At a potluck, early on when everything but the wine glasses were clean, unpicked cheese sweating on plastic plates, small talk agitating the air, someone cornered me with: "If you could own any painting, what would it be?" They meant a famous painting or a painting by someone famous-to keep the conversation moving. To hang in my bedroom or beside my writing desk. This is why I don't have tattoos. Imagine having to look at an image forever, I could have said. Instead I launched: "I saw once, in Dublin, during a year my spirit felt arid and pinched from grief, a perfect picture by Corot. It inspired in me what people used to call covetousness, and not because it was priceless or important. There are certain small pictures that you can feel yourself turning into a squint to look at-leaning tensely forward-but this one invites you to step naturally to it, so warm yet elusive is its light. Has it just hinished raining— in summer or tall? Morning or dusk? Is the mood obscure, sad, serious, pious, wistful, plaintive, magnificent, or joyful? Saint Peter's isn't actually visible from there, nor the green slopes and earth-tone city. The stone pine on the right has a knobby trunk and shadowy canopy and thick, wavy branches. Its companion catches the wind in whooshing leaves. A priest listens to four streams pour from a wide basin. The hill looks like a place to meet an old friend or long for one."

I have a prose poem about a Corot painting in the tenth anniversary issue of wilderness. This poem is part of a project about ekphrasis I’m beginning to work on.

fountain pens and fancy paper. i have recommendations. we could be pen pals.

Poem titled Seven Ears of Green Wheat It is not an elegy to tell the birds: who drew his first full breath offered his vast exhale to lift you to flight. Who saw the last bird aflutter set her toward the window of another’s song. And who had only a sliver of the sky poured to the brim of language the commanding of the stars. Set the table for a guest and drew across the feet of both a way in the night. What immutable distance between this world and this world when I startle with courage. One night, I went looking for seven ears of green wheat— not knowing if they even grew here, or if somewhere the late spring had been stemmed. How was I to return but unafraid. Ask how could language be futile. Ask the fighter vigilant for what fire may steal in the night how he walks unafraid beneath such skies and his answer is that of the poet. The moon is the first exile.

one of two poems in Mizna 26.1: Kindred ❤️‍🔥 this poem began as an elegy for mahmoud darwish but once broached, the grief kept pouring. gratitude to moheb soliman, nour hussein and lana barkawi @miznaarabart.bsky.social for their belief in my poems and insights along the process ❤️‍🔥

Sealey Challenge Poetry Pledge Fundraiser All funds collected through this page will be sent to The Sameer Project, a donations-based initiative led by Palestinians in the diaspora working to supply aid to displaced families in Gaza. You can ...

We are officially over a week in - but there's still time to pledge support for The Sameer Project! open-books-a-poem-emporium.myshopify.com/products/sea...

Squabble up

Thank you, dear ones, for making a spot for my poem & for your kindness to me.

i need to be better about being on here but my debut poetry collection, FABLEMAKER, is available for preorder! thank you to the team at Gaudy Boy / Singapore Unbound for all their work on this. would love it if you'd preorder!

singaporeunbound.org/gaudy-boy/fa...

Cover shows what seem to be dark paper cut-ours of figures in a round dance on a moonscape. Pastel colors prevail. The sky is a muted purple. The lettering is reminiscent of old computer script.

Song of Inverted Time Oh, I know I learned songs of protection sang to the moon until it turned but a tongue lost turns to smoke When the moon chooses its end, who will remember us here? Sang to the moon until it turned "I learned a song to erase the past" When the moon chooses its end, who will remember us here? Listen, I learned a song to erase the past Bundled memories in tattered notebooks Listen, what else would you choose? Bundled memories in tattered notebooks, but we lost this language so long ago. What else would you choose? If history never happened again? We lost this language so long ago. Silent heroes become quiet civilians if history never happened again. "...." Silent heroes become quiet civilians, we are the lucky ones. "... ..." We are the lucky ones. "... Do you need me to repeat that? ..."

Song of Inverted Time from @summ.bsky.social's I COULD DIE TODAY AND LIVE AGAIN (@gameoverbooks.bsky.social, 2023). 🌟✨🌟
#poetry #bookSky 📚💙

September 30!

rating novels by superstar poets based on titles ONLY.

-martyr! by kaveh akbar 8/10. nice use of punctuation. a thing i never say.
-good girl by aria aber 3/10. it's giving publisher's choice. sorry queen.
-emperor of gladness by ocean vuong 100/10. man, i would not have guessed that's a place.

every day i hate punctuation more stop clarifying meaning let me be confused let me delight you in sleights of hand

for legal reasons, this is about Sinners (2025) dir. Ryan Coogler.

i’m sorry but those white devils popped off with rocky road to dublin

juno dawson do you want a link to notes on craft: writing in the hour of genocide by fargo tbakhi

bring inua ellams back. i've had it with these white folks writing the doctor.

I’ve been falling in love with the word “wide” btw. If you even care.

II I go alone through the poplar grove like the girl in the engraving. (Moonless sky, Windless earth.) I remember your hand in mine, and your word in my word.

II Voy solo por la alameda como la niña de la estampa. (Cielo sin luna. Tierra sin viento.) Y recuerdo tu mano en mi mano y tu palabra en mi palabra.

Federico García Lorca, tr. Christopher Maurer

Everything Was in The Throat of The World: On Jaia Hamid Bashir’s Desire/Halves | Poetry Northwest "Often in Desire/Halves, language is derived from the ways of the animal, reminiscent of letters in an alphabet wrought from Taurian head and horn."

beloveds, my review of Desire/Halves by @jaiofearth.bsky.social is out today on the PoetryNW web — and it has mini-moons, prayers, Paul Celan, and ofc a reference to Anne Carson. shoutout to reviews ed @nanya.bsky.social for playing along with this whimsical review!

www.poetrynw.org/everything-w...

... the foolishness

with which we sculpt time into a life

—Jennifer Chang, from "Dialogues (Against God)"

Cover of Carlos A. Pittella's chapbook "propersitions," featuring an array of 9 squares with different shapes. It is a cabinet-of-curiosities of visual representation of dislocated prepositions, with dots, circles, and curves occupying improper positions in the squares, sometimes precarious, sometimes breaking thru the borders...

Liberation Day, Carnation Revolution, cover reveal day!

👉 propersitions (sic!), my 2nd chapbook, is coming out with Cactus Press on May 18th!

So excited to share my dislocated prepositions with y'all—& thrilled to be label-mates with @lunarmariarilke.bsky.social & @salenawiener.bsky.social ☺️

“Why was I born among mirrors?”

Federico García Lorca, Song of the Dry Orange Tree

breaking news girl who enjoyed the Alan Cumming Bacchae and the Alan Cumming Hamlet also enjoyed the Alan Cumming Doctor Who ep today

stunning, stunning!

❤️‍🔥

Before Losing Yourself Completely to Love Drop bread crumbs around your feet. You will find yourself far away and hungry.

mark yakich —

The sea, framed by trees

The sea and rocks, clouds at a distance.

Hand holding a seashell, iridescent on the inside in the sunlight. Rocks in the background.

Close up image of a tide pool. There are sea anemones.

thinking of the birth of myths, thinking of time as a marker for difficult knowledge, thinking of sea anemone