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Sun Feb 28, 2021 2:09 pm
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Liminality says...



Of Modern Poetry
BY WALLACE STEVENS https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/wallace-stevens
Poem Source: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43435/of-modern-poetry

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Mon Mar 01, 2021 1:25 am
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Rook says...



On First Seeing a U.S. Forest Service Aerial Photo of Where I Live
by James Galvin
All those poems I wrote
About living in the sky
Were wrong. I live on a leaf
Of   a fern of   frost growing
Up your bedroom window
In forty below.

I live on a needle of   a branch
Of   a cedar tree, hard-bitten,
Striving in six directions,
Rooted in rock, a cedar
Tree made of other trees,
Not cedar but fir,

Lodgepole, and blue spruce,
Metastasizing like
Bacteria to the fan-
Lip of a draw to draw
Water as soon as it slips
From the snowdrift’s grip

And flows downward from
Branch to root — a tree
Running in reverse.
Or I live on a thorn on a trellis —
Trained, restrained, maybe
Cut back, to hold up

Those flowers I’ve only heard of
To whatever there is and isn’t
Above.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger.
To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!

-Elena Passarello, Animals Strike Curious Poses
  





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Wed Mar 24, 2021 5:41 am
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Rook says...



A Patch of Old Snow
by Robert Frost

There's a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.

It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I’ve forgotten—
If I ever read it.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger.
To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!

-Elena Passarello, Animals Strike Curious Poses
  





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598 Reviews

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Points: 4082
Reviews: 598
Sat Apr 03, 2021 10:08 am
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Rook says...



This Hour and What Is Dead
by Li-Young Lee
Tonight my brother, in heavy boots, is walking
through bare rooms over my head,
opening and closing doors.
What could he be looking for in an empty house?
What could he possibly need there in heaven?
Does he remember his earth, his birthplace set to torches?
His love for me feels like spilled water
running back to its vessel.

At this hour, what is dead is restless
and what is living is burning.

Someone tell him he should sleep now.

My father keeps a light on by our bed
and readies for our journey.
He mends ten holes in the knees
of five pairs of boy’s pants.
His love for me is like his sewing:
various colors and too much thread,
the stitching uneven. But the needle pierces
clean through with each stroke of his hand.

At this hour, what is dead is worried
and what is living is fugitive.

Someone tell him he should sleep now.

God, that old furnace, keeps talking
with his mouth of teeth,
a beard stained at feasts, and his breath
of gasoline, airplane, human ash.
His love for me feels like fire,
feels like doves, feels like river-water.

At this hour, what is dead is helpless, kind
and helpless. While the Lord lives.

Someone tell the Lord to leave me alone.
I’ve had enough of his love
that feels like burning and flight and running away.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger.
To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!

-Elena Passarello, Animals Strike Curious Poses
  





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Thu Apr 08, 2021 1:05 am
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Rook says...



Blacksmith Shop
by Czeslaw Milosz
I liked the bellows operated by rope.
A hand or a foot pedal – I don’t remember.
But that blowing and blazing of fire!
And a piece of iron in the fire, held there by tongs,
Red, softened, ready for the anvil,
Beaten with a hammer, bent into a horseshoe,
Thrown in a bucket of water, sizzle, steam.
And horses hitched to be shod,
Tossing their manes; and in the grass by the river
Plowshares, sledge runners, harrows waiting for repair.
At the entrance, my bare feet on the dirt floor,
Here, gusts of heat; at my back, white clouds,
I stare and stare. It seems I was called for this:
To glorify things just because they are.


Translated by the author and Robert Hass
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger.
To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!

-Elena Passarello, Animals Strike Curious Poses
  





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Wed Jun 16, 2021 3:23 am
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alliyah says...



Caterpillars - by Brod Bagert

They came like dewdrops overnight
Eating every plant in sight,
Those nasty worms with legs that crawl
So creepy up the garden wall,
Green prickly fuzz to hurt and sting
Each unsuspecting living thing.
How I hate them! Oh, you know
I’d love to squish them with my toe.
But then I see past their disguise,
Someday they’ll all be butterflies.


his site, poem source
i can't love you if you don't know the difference between teal & dark cyan
&
you should know i am a time traveler
&
there is no season as achingly temporary as now

  





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Sat Jun 26, 2021 4:24 am
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paperforest says...



Field Guide
by Tony Hoagland

Once, in the cool blue middle of a lake,
up to my neck in that most precious element of all,

I found a pale-gray, curled-upwards pigeon feather
floating on the tension of the water

at the very instant when a dragonfly,
like a blue-green iridescent bobby pin,

hovered over it, then lit, and rested.
That’s all.

I mention this in the same way
that I fold the corner of a page

in certain library books,
so that the next reader will know

where to look for the good parts.
  





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Fri Jul 23, 2021 4:05 am
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alliyah says...



an excerpt from Epipsychidion by Percy Bysshe Shelley

The ivy and the wild-vine interknit
The volumes of their many-twining stems;
Parasite flowers illume with dewy gems
The lampless halls, and when they fade, the sky
Peeps through their winter-woof of tracery
With moonlight patches, or star atoms keen,
Or fragments of the day's intense serene;
Working mosaic on their Parian floors.
And, day and night, aloof, from the high towers
And terraces, the Earth and Ocean seem
To sleep in one another's arms, and dream
Of waves, flowers, clouds, woods, rocks, and all that we
Read in their smiles, and call reality.

i can't love you if you don't know the difference between teal & dark cyan
&
you should know i am a time traveler
&
there is no season as achingly temporary as now

  





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Wed Aug 11, 2021 10:24 pm
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Rook says...



Advice from a Caterpillar
By Amy Gerstler
Chew your way into a new world.
Munch leaves. Molt. Rest. Molt
again. Self-reinvention is everything.
Spin many nests. Cultivate stinging
bristles. Don’t get sentimental
about your discarded skins. Grow
quickly. Develop a yen for nettles.
Alternate crumpling and climbing. Rely
on your antennae. Sequester poisons
in your body for use at a later date.
When threatened, emit foul odors
in self-defense. Behave cryptically
to confuse predators: change colors, spit,
or feign death. If all else fails, taste terrible.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger.
To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!

-Elena Passarello, Animals Strike Curious Poses
  





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Mon Oct 04, 2021 9:03 pm
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Seirre says...



dear white america
by Danez Smith
Source

tw: racism and death

i’ve left Earth in search of darker planets, a solar system revolving too near a black hole. i’ve left in search of a new God. i do not trust the God you have given us. my grandmother’s hallelujah is only outdone by the fear she nurses every time the blood-fat summer swallows another child who used to sing in the choir. take your God back. though his songs are beautiful, his miracles are inconsistent. i want the fate of Lazarus for Renisha, want Chucky, Bo, Meech, Trayvon, Sean & Jonylah risen three days after their entombing, their ghost re-gifted flesh & blood, their flesh & blood re-gifted their children. i’ve left Earth, i am equal parts sick of your go back to Africa & i just don’t see race. neither did the poplar tree. we did not build your boats (though we did leave a trail of kin to guide us home). we did not build your prisons (though we did & we fill them too). we did not ask to be part of your America (though are we not America? her joints brittle & dragging a ripped gown through Oakland?). i can’t stand your ground. i’m sick of calling your recklessness the law. each night, i count my brothers. & in the morning, when some do not survive to be counted, i count the holes they leave. i reach for black folks & touch only air. your master magic trick, America. now he’s breathing, now he don’t. abra-cadaver. white bread voodoo. sorcery you claim not to practice, hand my cousin a pistol to do your work. i tried, white people. i tried to love you, but you spent my brother’s funeral making plans for brunch, talking too loud next to his bones. you took one look at the river, plump with the body of boy after girl after sweet boi & ask why does it always have to be about race? because you made it that way! because you put an asterisk on my sister’s gorgeous face! call her pretty (for a black girl)! because black girls go missing without so much as a whisper of where?! because there are no amber alerts for amber-skinned girls! because Jordan boomed. because Emmett whistled. because Huey P. spoke. because Martin preached. because black boys can always be too loud to live. because it’s taken my papa’s & my grandma’s time, my father’s time, my mother’s time, my aunt’s time, my uncle’s time, my brother’s & my sister’s time . . . how much time do you want for your progress? i’ve left Earth to find a place where my kin can be safe, where black people ain’t but people the same color as the good, wet earth, until that means something, until then i bid you well, i bid you war, i bid you our lives to gamble with no more. i’ve left Earth & i am touching everything you beg your telescopes to show you. i’m giving the stars their right names. & this life, this new story & history you cannot steal or sell or cast overboard or hang or beat or drown or own or redline or shackle or silence or cheat or choke or cover up or jail or shoot or jail or shoot or jail or shoot or ruin
                    this, if only this one, is ours.
u make me go wat cuz u so wat n u can always go what around u watcha

--SpiritedWolfe


< they/she >
  





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Fri Oct 15, 2021 3:22 am
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alliyah says...



This poem "Obit" is by Victoria Chang who has a collection of poems, each written in the form of an obituary.

Caretakers — died in 2009, 2010,
2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, 2016,
2017, one after another.
One didn’t show up
because her husband was
in prison. Most others
watched the clock. Time
breaks for the living
eventually and they can
walk out of doors. The
handle of time’s door is hot
for the dying. What use is
a door if you can’t exit? A
door that can’t be opened
is called a wall. My father
is on the other side of the
wall. Tomatoes are
ripening on the other side.
I can see them through the
window that also can’t be
opened. A window that
can’t be opened is just a
see-through wall.
Sometimes we’re on the
inside like a plane. Most of
the time, we’re on the
outside like doggie day
care. I don’t know if the
tomatoes are the new form
of his language or if they’re
simply for eating. I can’t
ask him because on the
other side, there are no
words. All I can do is stare
at the nameless bursting
tomatoes and know they
have to be enough.


source: Poetry Foundation - Poetry (July/August 2018)
i can't love you if you don't know the difference between teal & dark cyan
&
you should know i am a time traveler
&
there is no season as achingly temporary as now

  





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203 Reviews



Gender: Female
Points: 8110
Reviews: 203
Sat Oct 23, 2021 7:32 am
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Liminality says...



Birds of Prey
by Claude McKay
Source: http://www.harlemshadows.org/birds-of-prey.html
(Warning: the poem describes violence between birds and is interpreted as an allegory for racism.)

Their shadow dims the sunshine of our day,

As they go lumbering across the sky,

Squawking in joy of feeling safe on high,

Beating their heavy wings of owlish gray.

They scare the singing birds of earth away

As, greed-impelled, they circle threateningly,

Watching the toilers with malignant eye,

From their exclusive haven — birds of prey.

They swoop down for the spoil in certain might,

And fasten in our bleeding flesh their claws.

They beat us to surrender weak with fright,

And tugging and tearing without let or pause,

They flap their hideous wings in grim delight,

And stuff our gory hearts into their maws.
  








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