poetry

This is the new volunteer post. All other posts for volunteers are now declared obsolete. (Sorry, but I'm getting confused, so we are starting fresh.) If you wish to volunteer please use only this post to do so.

The way it will work:

* Sign up (by leaving a comment to this entry) saying that you're interested in taking a week of posting poetry.

* I will contact you when it's your turn in the rotation (going down the list of who signs up) and ask you if you're able to take the next week. If you are, that week is 'yours', and you'll be the Poetry Host that week. (If it's not a good week, no worries, just say so and we'll move you down the list.)

* During your week, you'll post at least five poems spread out during the week (no more than one every 12 hours or so, so people can have a chance to really engage with the poem when it's posted instead of consuming it quickly and moving on to the next). (If, like, your world ends and you can't get to all five, s'okay, no big deal, but please do think whether you'll be able to reasonably commit to the week when you're asked.) Reposts from our copious archives are permitted.

* Weeks will run Monday - Sunday. I'll try to contact people by the Friday before. Once you've finished out your week, feel free to comment and say you'd like to do it again.

* This will not stop freeform posting. If you see a poem you want to share and it's not your week, share it anyway. (Likewise, you don't ever have to sign up to be the host of the week if you're more in tune with the freeform thing.) We don't want this to be a totally moderated type community, just want regular content being posted.

* Poetry can be of any era, type, language, structure, etc. (If it isn't written in English, we'd like a translation, whether yours or someone else's.) We'd prefer poetry written for poetry, and not as song lyrics. When you're hosting, your poems do not have to be on a particular theme, but if you'd like to make them themed, please feel free.

Every third week of the month will be theme week. On that week there will be no volunteer. A theme will be posted and all members are encouraged to post entries that relate to our theme.
Please add your theme suggestions to the theme post.

If you'd like to host a future week, please comment here! We will not take signups for a particular week -- that'd be too complex -- but if your week rolls around and you can't take it due to life explosion, you can postpone.

taiga13

The cashier at the gas station asks me where I'm from
and when I say Ohio, he says Go buckeyes
which I understand as a stranger offering
language that can be shared. The way starlings
roost on a power line, scooching over
so the other can sit, flocked and fanning
feathers against rain and never in my life
have I seen a football game, but still I reply
Go buckeyes
which is a way of saying: I accept.
I would root with you in imaginary stands.
Cheer at the same time in a darkened bar.
We are more alike than not, us two.
Here, let me shift, shuffle. Shelter a moment
beneath this wing.

Current Mood: contemplative

taiga13

For Renee Nicole Good
Killed by U.S. Immigration & Customs Enforcement (ICE) on January 7, 2026

They say she is no more,
That there her absence roars,
Blood-blown like a rose
Iced wheels flinched & froze.
Now, bare riot of candles,
Dark fury of flowers,
Pure howling of hymns.

If for us she arose,
Somewhere, in the pitched deep of our grief,
Crouches our power.
The howl where we begin,
Straining upon the edge of the crooked crater
Of the worst of what we've been.

Change is only possible,
& all the greater,
When the labor
& bitter anger of our neighbors
Is moved by the love
& better angels of our nature.

What they call death & void,
We know is breath & voice;
In the end, gorgeously,
Endures our enormity.

You could believe departed to be the dawn
When the blank night has so long stood,
But our bright-fled angels will never fully be gone,
When they forever as so fiercely Good.

jadelennox

Send me a slow news day,
a quiet, subdued day,
in which nothing much happens of note,
save for the passing of time,
the consumption of wine,
and a re-run of Murder, She Wrote.

Grant me a no news day,
a spare-me-your-views day,
in which nothing much happens at all,
except a few hours together
some regional weather,
a day we can barely recall.

(source)

chestnut_pod

The Old Usher
Oliver Reynolds
2010, from Hodge

--

for Farès Moussa

I have
shouted Lights! in the foyer as the show begins

I have
opened and closed a million doors
Push and Pull stamping my palms

I have
woken with Good Evening on my lips

I have
ROH in moles over my left nipple

I have
Tchaikovsky as a heart-beat

I have
told ten thousand bladders
It’s down the slope and on the right

I have
stood at the bottom of Floral Hall stairs
with Peter Bramley at the top
tapping the metal hand-rail with his ring
to annoy me

I have
bent my head to complaints about the row in front
the big hair-do, the change-jingler, those who snore or smell

I have
turned a blind eye, a deaf ear, and a stopped nostril

I have
opened and closed a million doors
Push and Pull stamping my palms

I have
waited in the wings to present flowers
cygnets wafting past me in a crush of tutus
each back tight with the cordage of muscle

I have
sold ices with Susie Boyle

I have
passed the black-and-white monitor at Stage Door
and felt proud to see Haitink in the pit
a bottled homunculus preserved in music

I have
opened my locker on a vista of dirty shirts

I have
killed a moth for Monica Mason
It wants to settle on me!
she who once danced her death in the Rite
now frightened of millimetres of flutter

I have
Tchaikovsky as a heart-beat

I have
bassoons and strings planned for my last-act death
the weightless pas-de-chat
lifting me out of this ninth life
into the proscenium’s eternal gold

I have
perfected my farewell
a final turning-out of the pockets
as I rise and vanish into air
swirling with the confetti of ticket-stubs

I have
shouted Lights! as the show begins

I have

jazzfish

For Leonard, Darko, and Burton Watson

by Ursula K. Le Guin

A black and white cat
on May grass waves his tail, suns his belly
among wallflowers.
I am reading a Chinese poet
called The Old Man Who Does As He Pleases.
The cat is aware of the writing
of swallows
on the white sky.
We are both old and doing what pleases us
in the garden. Now I am writing
and the cat
is sleeping.
Whose poem is this?

jazzfish

A Nursery Rhyme
as it might have been written by William Wordsworth

by Wendy Cope

The skylark and the jay sang loud and long,
The sun was calm and bright, the air was sweet,
When all at once I heard above the throng
Of jocund birds a single plaintive bleat.

And, turning, saw, as one sees in a dream,
It was a Sheep had broke the moorland peace
With his sad cry, a creature who did seem
The blackest thing that ever wore a fleece.

I walked towards him on the stony track
And, pausing for a while between two crags,
I asked him, ‘Have you wool upon your back?’
Thus he bespake, ‘Enough to fill three bags.’

Most courteously, in measured tones, he told
Who would receive each bag and where they dwelt;
And oft, now years have passed and I am old,
I recollect with joy that inky pelt.

jadelennox

Let us abandon then our gardens and go home
And sit in the sitting-room
Shall the larkspur blossom or the corn grow under this cloud?
Sour to the fruitful seed
Is the cold earth under this cloud,
Fostering quack and weed, we have marched upon but cannot
conquer;
We have bent the blades of our hoes against the stalks of them.

Let us go home, and sit in the sitting room.
Not in our day
Shall the cloud go over and the sun rise as before,
Beneficent upon us
Out of the glittering bay,
And the warm winds be blown inward from the sea
Moving the blades of corn
With a peaceful sound.

Forlorn, forlorn,
Stands the blue hay-rack by the empty mow.
And the petals drop to the ground,
Leaving the tree unfruited.
The sun that warmed our stooping backs and withered the weed
uprooted—
We shall not feel it again.
We shall die in darkness, and be buried in the rain.

What from the splendid dead
We have inherited —
Furrows sweet to the grain, and the weed subdued —
See now the slug and the mildew plunder.
Evil does overwhelm
The larkspur and the corn;
We have seen them go under.

Let us sit here, sit still,
Here in the sitting-room until we die;
At the step of Death on the walk, rise and go;
Leaving to our children's children the beautiful doorway,
And this elm,
And a blighted earth to till
With a broken hoe.

chestnut_pod

Andrea Gibson died yesterday of ovarian cancer. They were a great guiding light of spoken word, and their poem "Ashes" was a touchstone for me as a teenager. In their honor:

Watch on YouTube

( Transcript )

halfcactus

2 poems from Mary Oliver's Red Bird collection.

Red Bird

Red bird came all winter
firing up the landscape
as nothing else could.

Of course I love the sparrows,
those dun-colored darlings,
so hungry and so many.

I am a God-fearing feeder of birds.
I know He has many children,
not all of them bold in spirit.

Still, for whatever reason—
perhaps, because the winter is so long
and the sky so black-blue

or perhaps because the heart narrows
as often as it opens—
I am grateful

that red bird comes all winter
firing up the landscape
as nothing can do.

Invitation

Oh do you have time
to linger
    for just a little while
       out of your busy

and very important day
for the goldfinches
    that have gathered
       in a field of thistle

for a musical battle,
to see who can sing
    the highest note,
       or the lowest,

or the most expressive of mirth,
or the most tender?
    Their strong, blunt beaks
       drink the air

as they strive
melodiously
    not for your sake
       and not for mine

and not for the sake of winning
but for the sheer delight and gratitude—
    believe us, they say,
       it is a serious thing

just to be alive
on this fresh morning
    in this broken world.
       I beg of you,

do not walk by
without pausing
    to attend to this
       rather ridiculous performance.

It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
    It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:
       You must change your life.

dividedbyblue

Llegó con tres heridas (He arrived with three wounds)
Miguel Hernández

(This poem was also put to music)

(original)

Llegó con tres heridas:
la del amor,
la de la muerte,
la de la vida.

Con tres heridas viene:
la de la vida,
la del amor,
la de la muerte.

Con tres heridas yo:
la de la vida,
la de la muerte,
la del amor.

(English)

He arrived with three wounds:
that of love,
that of death,
that of life.

With three wounds he comes:
that of life,
that of love,
that of death.

I with three wounds:
that of life,
that of death,
that of love

atlantablack

The Colorado River is the most endangered river in the United States—
also, it is a part of my body.

I carry a river. It is who I am: 'Aha Makav. This is not metaphor.

When a Mojave says, Inyech 'Aha Makavch ithuum, we are saying our name.
We are telling a story of our existence. The river runs through the middle
of my body.

So far, I have said the word river in every stanza. I don't want to waste water.
I must preserve the river in my body.

In future stanzas, I will try to be more conservative.

↠

The Spanish called us, Mojave. Colorado, the name they gave our river be-
cause it was silt-red-thick.

Natives have been called red forever. I have never met a red Native, not
even on my reservation, not even at the National Museum of the American
Indian, not even at the largest powwow in Parker, Arizona.

I live in the desert along a dammed blue river. The only red people I've seen
are white tourists sunburned after staying out on the water too long.

↞
( Read more... )

From Postcolonial Love Poem by Natalie Diaz - Page 46 to 52

atlantablack

It's true I'm all talk & a French tuck
but so what. Like the wind, I ride
my own life. Neon light electric
in the wet part of a roadkill
on the street where I cut my teeth
on the good sin. I want to
take care of our planet
because I need a beautiful
graveyard. It's true I'm not a writer
but a faucet underwater. When the flood comes
I'll raise my hand so they know
who to shoot. The sky flashes. The sea
yearns. I myself
am hell. Everyone's here. Sometimes
I go to parties just to dangle my feet
out of high windows, among people.
( Read more... )

from Time is a Mother - pg. 36

atlantablack

I'm afraid that I won't do the right thing
in the face of disaster.

Or, I'm afraid I will be stupidly brave.

      I'll pull the helmet off the fallen when you're supposed
to leave it on, in case it's holding things together.

Also, I like to discuss my feelings too much.

The only thing I've learned about a home death
is that it requires a lot of washcloths. 

☀︎
( Read more... )

From Bright Dead Things by Ada Limón pg. 28

atlantablack

I. 
Though I don't remember, I remember my birth
was my first yes. Though I was pushed, yes.
Though there was screaming, yes. Though the light hurt, yes.

I wanted the yes to last forever so badly that I told myself:
We're built like drums. We couldn't make songs
if we had never been hit. It was a desperate theory.

When they told me god was always watching 
I said, Who wants to worship a diary thief?
I didn't dare say who wants to worship anyone

who would see everything and just sit there doing nothing
while the devil flossed his teeth with the bow
of my prettiest violin?
( Read more... )

From Lord of the Butterflies pg. 17

chestnut_pod

Constellated
by Myriam Gurba

(x)

My friend bought
A star and named that
Star after her boyfriend.
I gaze at the summer sky,
Wondering, “Is that you,
Chuy Gómez?”

atlantablack

I’ve been taught bloodstones can cure a snakebite,
can stop the bleeding — most people forgot this
when the war ended. The war ended
depending on which war you mean: those we started,
before those, millenia ago and onward,
those which started me, which I lost and won —
these ever-blooming wounds.
I was built by wage. So I wage love and worse—
always another campaign to march across
a desert night for the cannon flash of your pale skin
settling in a silver lagoon of smoke at your breast.
I dismount my dark horse, bend to you there, deliver you
the hard pull of all my thirsts—
I learned Drink in a country of drought.( Read more... )

From Postcolonial Love Poem - pg 1

atlantablack

I lock you in an American sonnet that is part prison,
Part panic closet, a little room in a house set aflame.
I lock you in a form that is part music box, part meat
Grinder to separate the song of the bird from the bone.
I lock your persona in a dream-inducing sleeper hold
While your better selves watch from the bleachers.
I make you both gym & crow here. As the crow
You undergo a beautiful catharsis trapped one night
In the shadows of the gym. As the gym, the feel of crow-
Shit dropping to your floors is not unlike the stars
Falling from the pep rally posters on your walls.
I make you a box of darkness with a bird in its heart.
Voltas of acoustics, instinct & metaphor. It is not enough
To love you. It is not enough to want you destroyed.

From American Sonnets for My Past and Future Assassin page 11

atlantablack

The lullaby I wrote on your throat about the stained
hilt of the knife in my hand begins — Whisper, or snow
will come and make its sadness famous in your mouth.

The why of you a radiant devilfish, the what of you
a fat little soul bluing at the edges.

The surest way to receive a free ram is to tie your son’s hands
behind his back. Offer me a metaphor, God said.
Abraham stretched Isaac out on a rock, Like this?
( Read more... )

From Come the Slumberless to the Land of Nod pg. 6

atlantablack

Delete the number,
trash the boxes
give the sweaters away.
Stop holding onto things
that do not fit you anymore.
Clutter has many faces.

Forgive them.
They didn’t apologize,
and you’re still mad,
but what I do know is this:
a closed fist
can punch through a wall,
but you can’t fix the hole
until you open your hands.

The past
is one of the few things
more stubborn than we are.
It will not change
and doesn’t care if
you have a better idea
of how the story
should’ve ended.
( Read more... )

from Excuse Me as I Kiss the Sky pg. 119-121

northlands

to care this way

by Threa Almontaser

is turning me off. so i take a walk.
plums fall from trees and protest
& i can’t see the colour green
anymore & just last night yo
just last night god went SPLAT
on my window like a fluttery lick
spittle & told me all love starts
in a garden. what am i supposed to do
with that? another friend goes. gone
enough. almost never here. those facetimes
inside me out all year, wishing I could see you
in the hospital. life breaks who doesn’t cry
eventually. one more grave in the middle
of all that green. prayers tangle in my pockets
like earphone wire. i think about the best way
to maneuver my mask & eat, then give up.
i think about the best way to sneak
into the hospital. what about the body
& everything it can’t keep? i’m so over
the garden. i stood at its knee, dressed in
leaves, begging for fruit. learned the only
predator in paradise is me. no eating or being eaten.
bony limbs, broken lungs & growing more
unknown.

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Poetry

Regular explosions of words. If you'd like to sign up to be the Poetry Host for a week, we're currently taking signups.

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Page Summary

erda - Calling for volunteers
taiga13 - The cashier at the gas station asks me where I'm from by J. Sullivan
taiga13 - For Renee Nicole Good by Amanda Gorman
jadelennox - Prayer for Uninteresting Times
chestnut_pod - "The Old Usher," by Oliver Reynolds
jazzfish - For Leonard, Darko, and Burton Watson
jazzfish - A Nursery Rhyme (Wordsworth)
jadelennox - Justice Denied In Massachusetts by Edna St. Vincent Millay
chestnut_pod - "Royal Heart," by Andrea Gibson, of blessed memory
halfcactus - Mary Oliver: "Red Bird", "Invitation"
dividedbyblue - Llegó con tres heridas by Miguel Hernández
atlantablack - The First Water Is The Body by Natalie Diaz
atlantablack - The Last Prom Queen in Antarctica by Ocean Vuong
atlantablack - What Remains Grows Ravenous by Ada Limón
atlantablack - Good Light by Andrea Gibson
chestnut_pod - Constellated - Myriam Gurba
atlantablack - Postcolonial Love Poem by Natalie Diaz
atlantablack - Sonnet 7 by Terrance Hayes
atlantablack - Lullaby on Mount Moriah by Traci Brimhall
atlantablack - A Series of Gentle Reminders by Rudy Francisco
northlands - (no subject)

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Base style: Practicality by timeasmymeasure
Theme: Bad Kitty by nornoriel

Page generated Jan. 17th, 2026 06:05 am

sharing words

Recent Entries

Sticky: Calling for volunteers

The cashier at the gas station asks me where I'm from by J. Sullivan

For Renee Nicole Good by Amanda Gorman

Prayer for Uninteresting Times

"The Old Usher," by Oliver Reynolds

For Leonard, Darko, and Burton Watson

A Nursery Rhyme (Wordsworth)

Justice Denied In Massachusetts by Edna St. Vincent Millay

"Royal Heart," by Andrea Gibson, of blessed memory

Mary Oliver: "Red Bird", "Invitation"

Llegó con tres heridas by Miguel Hernández

The First Water Is The Body by Natalie Diaz

The Last Prom Queen in Antarctica by Ocean Vuong

What Remains Grows Ravenous by Ada Limón

Good Light by Andrea Gibson

Constellated - Myriam Gurba

Postcolonial Love Poem by Natalie Diaz

Sonnet 7 by Terrance Hayes

Lullaby on Mount Moriah by Traci Brimhall

A Series of Gentle Reminders by Rudy Francisco

(no subject)

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