Posts tagged ‘poetry’

the upside of drowning

gibsongrand:

her words, so wet and sinuous
wash over him like the ocean
carves a home in the sand

there is an upside to drowning
to submit to the mysteries
of dark waters and gravity

her words, steeped in sex and promise
tumble him like stone to glass
eroding all that he thought was real

(c) gibson grand

(via vickyveiled)

The great thing
is not having
a mind. Feelings:
oh, I have those; they
govern me. I have
a lord in heaven
called the sun, and open
for him, showing him
the fire of my own heart, fire
like his presence.
What could such glory be
if not a heart? Oh my brothers and sisters,
were you like me once, long ago,
before you were human? Did you
permit yourselves
to open once, who would never
open again? Because in truth
I am speaking now
the way you do. I speak
because I am shattered.

Louise Glück, “The Red Poppy” (via larmoyante)

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Pablo Neruda (via shedsumlight)

What we learn from monarchs

jscottgrand:

(photograph by Leanna Banana)

He did not fall in love when he fucked her in the stairwell
with dirty knees and hands clutched tightly around throat.

And she shed no tears for the ghosts he carried in his pocket
with money for whores and unfinished poems.
Her tears were hers alone.

But beneath summer’s open window, a butterfly flew in
and settled with broken wing upon her thigh.

For nine days it lived with them in their bed, 
surviving on sugar water and fluttering from knee to breast
as she came with lips pressed against her cunt. 

And on the tenth day, its wings stopped beating.
It was only then that she wept and his heart exploded.
 

If you enjoyed this, please consider buying my book, Trash and Vaudeville, which is available on Amazon or my e-chapbook, Fireflies, which is available here.

Creative Commons License
Original work by by j. scott grand is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.


 

(via jscottgrand-deactivated20121223)

libraryland:

The frequently-vandalized gravestone which marks the resting place of American poet Sylvia Plath in West Yorkshire, England… fans of the poet have repeatedly chiseled off the name “Hughes”, blaming the late poet’s husband Ted Hughes for her suicide at the age of 30 after he left her and their children for family friend Assia Wevill.  Six years later, Assia also killed herself along with her four-year-old daughter, Shura, who had been fathered by Hughes. 

libraryland:

The frequently-vandalized gravestone which marks the resting place of American poet Sylvia Plath in West Yorkshire, England… fans of the poet have repeatedly chiseled off the name “Hughes”, blaming the late poet’s husband Ted Hughes for her suicide at the age of 30 after he left her and their children for family friend Assia Wevill.  Six years later, Assia also killed herself along with her four-year-old daughter, Shura, who had been fathered by Hughes.