Someone is writing a poem. Words are being set down in a force field. It’s as if the words themselves have magnetic charges; they veer together or in polarity, they swerve against each other. Part of the force field, the charge, is the working history of the words themselves, how someone has known them, used them, doubted and relied on them in a life. Part of the movement among the words belongs to sound—the guttural, the liquid, the choppy, the drawn-out, the breathy, the visceral, the downlight. The theater of any poem is a collection of decisions about space and time—how are these words to lie on the page, with what pauses, what headlong motion, what phrasing, how can they meet the breath of the someone who comes along to read them? And in part the field is charged by the way images swim into the brain through written language: swan, kettle, icicle, ashes, scab, tamarack, tractor, veil, slime, teeth, freckle.
—  

Adrienne Rich, “Someone is Writing a Poem”

I read these words and all I can say is, Fuck. This makes me want to write poetry.

2 years ago · 2 notes

comicallyvintage:

Let me guess… you eat donuts because you like donuts too?

comicallyvintage:

Let me guess… you eat donuts because you like donuts too?

3 years ago · 641 notes · Reblogged from comicallyvintage

On my 26th birthday, I met my present wife. And how many women could stay with a guy who has no prospects and wants to write poetry and stay with him now 55 years? Sometimes, she worked, so that I can sit home and scribble. And she honors what I’m doing. And I think that is the most crucial thing, to be honored, as a poet, even if it — not by a nation, because a nation is an abstraction, but just to be honored by this person, or that person, or especially by your wife, or your brothers, or your mother, father, I mean, it’s just fantastic. It keeps you going in a way that nothing else could keep you going.
—  Philip Levine (via austinkleon)

3 years ago · 98 notes · Reblogged from austinkleon

Do not hold it against me, O speech, that I borrow weighty words,
and then labor to make them light.
—  Wislawa Szymborska, from “Under a Certain Little Star,” trans. Joanna Trzeciak (via the-final-sentence)

3 years ago · 26 notes · Reblogged from the-final-sentence

To hearing what it is the stars declare:
That there are things created of a size
We can’t and weren’t meant to understand,
As fish know nothing of the sun that writes
Its bright glyphs on the black waves overhead.
—  Adam Kirsch, from "Now that no one looking" 

3 years ago · 0 notes

Make way, Buttface.
A poem is coming through, lifting her skirt.
—  

Sandra Beasley, from "Let Me Count the Waves"


3 years ago · 6 notes

August, you’re just an erotic hallucination,
just so much feverishly produced kazoo music,
are you serious?—this large over impersonating night,
this exhaustion mutilated to resemble passion,
the bogus moon of tenderness and magic
you hold out to each prisoner like a cup of light?
—  Denis Johnson, from “Heat”

3 years ago · 0 notes

looks up at boughs of
trees shifting quickly
lit in blackness
—  Norma Cole, from “Sarabande”

3 years ago · 4 notes

Life making the same mistake over and over
On the piano or typewriter keys,
Always hitting the wrong note—
How “very alive, very American”
They are, how chockfull of metaphysics,
Hellbent to obliterate the wilderness.
—  Constance Urdang, from “To Live with a Landscape”

3 years ago · 0 notes

Sylvia Plath at her typewriter.

Sylvia Plath at her typewriter.

3 years ago · 0 notes

National Poetry Month Challenge

elleinprocess:

Come one! Come all! In honor of National Poetry Month, many of us on tumblr are taking on the awesome task of writing a poem each day this month. You should too! You don’t have to be an experienced poet or even a writer. Just give it a try. Poems of all kinds and subject matter are absolutely welcome!

Post an original poem to your tumblr each day. Use the tag “NaPoMo” Follow the tag and check it each day to read the wonderful new poems written by your new, poet friends!

3 years ago · 351 notes · Source · Reblogged from teachingliteracy

We look at the world once, in childhood.
The rest is memory.
—  (Louise Gluck, “Nostos”)

3 years ago · 121 notes · Source · Reblogged from teachingliteracy

There is a time between losses,
days with blank pages, when clapping
is permitted and singing and dancing,
even the kind of madness
that tells you to wear fireflies in your hair.
—  Judy Goldman, from “Between Losses”

3 years ago · 0 notes

3 years ago · 0 notes

Poetry Jokes

Question: How do poets say hello?

Answer: Hey, haven’t we metaphor?

*

Question: Why did the boy poet introduce himself to the girl poet?

Answer: Because he wanted to meter.

*

Question: Where do poems come from?

 Answer: Poe-trees.

*

Question: How does a poet sneeze?

Answer: Haiku!!!

*

Question: What do baby poets play with?

Answer: Tanka trucks.

*

http://www.poetryfountain.com/jokes.html

3 years ago · Notes