Here is the ending before the beginning:
I pick you out of my teeth like spinach.
I take a bath and I don’t think about drowning myself.
My sister spends the weekend at the apartment and
doesn’t ask me about it, even though she can see
that my teeth have gotten sharper since last time.
Your name is just a name.
I am still in one piece when I close the door.
I say “thank you for everything” and wipe my mouth.
You watch the Discovery Channel and see a lioness
lick her bloody paws after a kill.
You think of me and wonder if the grass was really so tall
that you couldn’t see me coming.
I am growing into something fierce and hungry.
When I kiss your skin, I am only trying to taste your bones.
Whatever is left of you, I hope it forgets me.

Caitlyn Siehl, "Prey" (via alonesomes)

YO

(via wordsfordays)

(via wordsfordays)

Source: alonesomes

Originally from to your trees

Richard Siken, “Detail of the Woods”

I looked at all the trees and didn’t know what to do.

A box made out of leaves.
What else was in the woods? A heart, closing. Nevertheless.

Everyone needs a place. It shouldn’t be inside of someone else.
I kept my mind on the moon. Cold moon, long nights moon.

From the landscape: a sense of scale.
From the dead: a sense of scale.

I turned my back on the story. A sense of superiority.
Everything casts a shadow.

Your body told me in a dream it’s never been afraid of anything.

(via renegadetongue)

Source: spittingwhys

Originally from swimming eyes

Again this morning my eyes woke up too close
to your eyes,

their almost green orbs
too heavy-lidded to really look back.

To wake up next to you
is ordinary. I do not even need to look at you

to see you.
But I do look. So when you come to me

in your opulent sadness, I see
you do not want me

to unbutton you
so I cannot do the one thing

I can do.
Now it is almost one a.m. I am still at my desk

and you are upstairs at your desk a staircase
away from me. Already it is years

of you a staircase
away from me. To be near you

and not near you
is ordinary.

You
are ordinary.

Still, how many afternoons have I spent
peeling blue paint from

our porch steps, peering above
hedgerows, the few parked cars for the first

glimpse of you. How many hours under
the overgrown, pink Camillas, thinking

the color was wrong for you, thinking
you’d appear

after my next
blink.

Soon you’ll come down the stairs
to tell me something. And I’ll say,

okay. Okay. I’ll say it
like that, say it just like

that, I’ll go on being
your never-enough.

It’s not the best in you
I long for. It’s when you’re noteless,

numb at the ends of my fingers, all is
all. I say it is.

Mary Szybist, “To You Again” (via renegadetongue)

Originally from comme un chaudron fêlé

I died in Korea from a shrapnel wound, and narcotics resurrected me. I died in 1960 from a prison sentence and poetry brought me back to life.

Etheridge Knight (via rodrickminor)

Originally from Rodrick Minor

In that foreign america, they must consider the dandelion a weed and not a bouquet of potential.

Hieu Nguyen

Hafizah Geter, With My Hands Around the Throats of My Mother’s Marigolds

Hafizah Geter, With My Hands Around the Throats of My Mother’s Marigolds

View in high-resolution

Source: pinwheeljournal.com

…sometimes I feel like the entire morning
Just happens to me
If I am able to think a poem I congratulate myself
People can be so rotten is what I think next

Wendy Xu, from Sexy Tree 

Source: thepinchjournal.com

Getting rid of nothing
is biblical work.

Lauren Shaprio, from They Promised Me a Thousand Years of Peace

Source: phantomlimbpress.com

THIS IS HOW I GET TO LOVE YOU

by Caroline Cabrera

And when we crossed the state together 
you could feel its insistence. And when we 
crossed the state I knew you were my husband 
from familiarity. Two hearts can know the length 
of something more than one alone. Two people 
can live in one house, and day to day it can feel 
like a large or small house. If a year passes 
should I feel more or less alone, more or less 
a function of the family I am? If a car passes 
on the highway that looks like ours, can we believe 
in an alternate universe where we are coming from 
or going to other places? Do we then have to imagine 
all the places we could be where we don’t pass 
ourselves, and what if I am alone in the car? 
And what if I am happy or sad in the car? 
And what if we pass the car again and inside 
we see two teenagers we never looked like? 
When we get home the house looks bright 
enough to welcome us, the clementines still ripe 
in the bowl. The brightness fakes a cleanliness. 
We could return to the couch. We could build 
a whole cat from all the fur under the furniture 
where the vacuum cannot reach.

Source: phantomlimbpress.com

I do not forget the north
of your naked, nor the froth
of your ambition. I wear that
compass like tattoo.
To grow is what I like
about you: how it looks.
How you draw the icon
from its tooled&pearled holster.
Hot as a star.

Arielle Greenberg, from Sugar-Star

Source: phantomlimbpress.com

A bell’s tongue
is called a clapper, which satisfies

visually but not aurally. I want something
hard but rounded. I want to lie down

somewhere warm for a light but fulfilling nap.
I want to roam around the swamp

when I please, if that’s what my friends are doing,
if the morning requires an easy adventure.

Whenever I am even a little sick,
I feel as though I may never be healthy again.

The sensations of our bodies are hard
to remember when absent, the way, too,

a face starts to dissolve the more you try
to conjure it.

Caroline Cabrera, from Anxiety

Source: phantomlimbpress.com

Probably 90 percent of what any artist does is practice. We practice
and we fail and we fail. You set your pen to the page every day, and of course, you’re hoping that something grand will happen. But the chances are slim, and you know that going in, but you go in anyway. That’s faith. You keep hitting the page, hoping that something’s going to fit, something’s going to happen, something’s going to bloom up out of it. And the more you practice, the more that possibility of success is present. The more you do anything, the greater the possibility that something might actually come of it. So you constantly live with failure, and yet, you know that that failure is teaching you something.

Dorianne Laux, interviewed by Tana Young for Willow Springs (via nps2013)

(via meganfalley)

Source: bostonpoetryslam

Originally from Boston Poetry Slam

When we see a good poetry reading, we are witnessing a writer becoming open enough to get in touch with what they’ve written, the same openness they’ve implicitly asked of the audience. It takes a risk to stand in front of people as if you have something of value to share. Let that come through and be as uncool and awkward as you need to be to get it done. The writing deserves it.

Jamaal May on Giving a Not Terrible Reading, for Poets & Writers (via nps2013)

(via nicalea)

Source: bostonpoetryslam

Originally from Boston Poetry Slam

poemsbydes:

Tumblr.

Here’s a brand new video of a poem that I am very excited about. It was filmed a few weeks ago on a rooftop in New Orleans by Travis Henri and the BalconyTV team. This poem was written for New Orleans. It was written for Lexi and Sasha and Sophia and my mother and Kaycee and Julia and Sam and so many other people that held my heart.

It was also written for you, human. 

2012 was one of the most challenging years of my life.
I made it. I’m here. Reading poems on rooftops.

(If you like the poem, I’d love for you to share it and ‘like' it on youtube. It would mean a whole lot to my little ol' heart.)

xoxo,
des.

"I Break like a Fever", Desireé Dallagiacomo

Originally from Desireé Dallagiacomo

The craft of poetry is not easy. It is better than easy. It is joyously difficult.

John Ciardi (via ge0ffmunsterman)

Originally from Noctiluca Culex