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April 03 2015

conchiglia
Awakened from a dream, I curl up
and turn. The roses on the dresser
smile and your words bloom.
The red roses for Valentine’s Day.

Like in a film
thoughts of you unfold
moment by moment.
 
I vaguely hear
the sound of your spoon scooping cereal
the water stream in the shower
the buzzing noise of your electric razor
like a singing of cicada.

Your footsteps in and out of the bedroom.
Your lips touching my cheek lightly.
And the sound of the door shutting.

In your light
I fall asleep again under the warm quilt
happily like a child.

Upon waking
on the kitchen counter I find a half
grapefruit carefully cut and sectioned.
Such a loving touch is a milestone
for my newly found happiness.
— Chungmi Kim, “Being in Love”
Tags: poem love

January 16 2015

conchiglia
I love it when it all goes flat, and leaves and clouds 
are instances of one idea— 
for such is night, I think, 
while day is how far 
one must go 

to connect parts.
— Jorie Graham, from Erosion
Tags: poem nature

December 29 2014

conchiglia
And we, who have always thought
of happiness as rising, would feel
the emotion that almost overwhelms us
whenever a happy thing falls.
— Rainer Maria Rilke
conchiglia
You think you are helpless because you are empty-handed
of concepts that could become your strength—
— Adrienne Rich, from Letters Censored, Shredded, Returned To Sender Or Judged Unfit To Send

November 27 2014

conchiglia
The way some flowers
curl up inside themselves.
Never touched. Never watered. 
Like your shoulders concaving
at touch. Always nervous. 
Always remembering.
— Lora Mathis, Subtleties
Tags: poem flowers
Reposted byahjou ahjou

November 02 2014

conchiglia

— Thomas Hood
Reposted byopheliackitana

October 30 2014

conchiglia
I am no good
Goodness is not the point anymore
Holding on to things
Now that’s the point
— Dorothea Lasky, “Ars Poetica”
Tags: poem

October 20 2014

conchiglia

Don’t ask me about his lips. How they ruby and burn. Stretch full over white teeth, taut like a drum. I want him to make music of me.

Don’t ask me about his hands. The way they are scarred with stories. How they slide thick down his legs as I stare. Mouth cotton; eyes hungry.

Don’t ask me about my hunger. The way my stomach drops tight when he looks at me. The way my palms itch for his bones. Don’t ask me about my fear. The way he comes to me.

How I open my mouth to say “Yes” and it comes out “I’m sorry.”

— His Lips, Clementine von Radics
Reposted bykatarynka93 katarynka93
conchiglia
you're in a room with cello hands
and the boy who used to say your name like
hello, even when he was saying
goodbye. you're in a room with the boy
who once said he would never forget you,
and you can't remember
who you were when he said it, but you know
you were softer. smaller. had collarbones
like silver spoons, and you were light. so
you're in this room, and maybe
you really loved him, or maybe you could
have loved him for a long time if
things were different, but they're
not, and you're sad. but here he is and here
you are and after all that time, him with
his crooked canoe eyes, you
with your question mark mouth. maybe you're in love
with other people. maybe you've lost
some pieces. maybe you've found some, either way,
you're different. his haircut. your new
tattoo. you're in a room with the boy who taught you
trembling, and you're not trembling
now, but you see him and he sees you, and you know
somewhere inside of you is a girl
and a boy sleeping in your chest cavity,
and no one ever has to leave and no one ever does. your
smiles catch the light and reflect off the walls
of this room, spiderwebs of lost things. and you're happy
and you're sad because he might always
remind you of cellos and canoes and night. but
you don't ache for him anymore. you can finally translate
letting go into a language your hands understand.
— "maybe this finally means goodbye" - e.a. (after richard siken)
Tags: poem love
Reposted byblymsienslowonaniedzielefairyland

October 19 2014

conchiglia
Songs ought to be sung, 
and when possible, 

stories ought to be told 

as they happened, 
        not from the shortest distance, not 
unattached, not asleep. 

Today I rose in the wreck 
        but I didn’t know what to keep, 

the memory or what it left behind: 
        you, small chair; you, empty belly; 

you, knock on the dark door.
— Charlotte Boulay, from “Aubade with Pericardium and Visitor
Tags: poem

October 14 2014

conchiglia
When you have nothing to say,
the sadness of things
speaks for you.
— Ruth Stone
Tags: quote poem
Reposted byanotherproblem anotherproblem

October 02 2014

conchiglia
Long ago, I was wounded.
I learned
to exist, in reaction,
out of touch
with the world: I’ll tell you
what I meant to be —
a device that listened.
Not inert: still.
A piece of wood. A stone.
— Louise Glück, excerpt from “Parados”

September 27 2014

conchiglia
I mourn 
the flower
I could have been
had my roots
never been uprooted.
— Foreigner, Pavana पवन
conchiglia
In your absence
I learned to love you 
in all the ways I failed 
while you were still here.
— Pavana पवन
Tags: poem love pavana
conchiglia
We must learn to bear pain 
the way the earth bears its seeds.
We must learn to blossom from it.
— Pavana पवन
Tags: poem life pavana
conchiglia
There is no poetry
in loving someone
who is in love with
someone else.

There are no words
to describe the pain
in knowing that I am 
like the dirt who gives
shelter to your roots,
when you are like the tree 
who shakes in the wind.
— Pavana पवन
conchiglia
I believe pain breeds wolves 
and joys give rise to moons. 

We grow forests in our bones
so our memories can’t find us. 

I believe we hide and haunt ourselves.
— Pavana पवन
conchiglia
You are like the tree
whose magnificence
lies not in the length 
of it’s branches,
but in all the birds who 
trust those branches
to build their homes.
— Pavana पवन

September 09 2014

conchiglia

A sad air’s best for night as you mope about 
the house, closing windows, checking doors. 
Slow, cumulative strokes of the violin bow, 
the most ruminative notes that can be coaxed 
from the cello, nocturnes unlocked by black piano keys.

Strains that are trained directly on the heart 
when its resistance sinks, like temperatures, 
to a day’s-end low: music that tells of how 
things stand in the troubled world you now have 
in your hands to potter about in on your own.

Music of the kind whose fearful darkness would 
unnerve you as a child, but whose darkness 
seems the very point, this late night here; a slow 
movement’s stark conclusions ringing sadly true.

— Dennis O’Driscoll, Nocturne Op. 2, from Dear Life
Tags: poem

September 08 2014

conchiglia

The weeks stood still in summer.
The trees’ blood rose. Now you feel
it wants to sink back
into the source of everything. You thought
you could trust that power
when you plucked the fruit;
now it becomes a riddle again,
and you again a stranger.

Summer was like your house: you knew
where each thing stood.
Now you must go out into your heart
as onto a vast plain. Now
the immense loneliness begins.
The days go numb, the wind
sucks the world from your senses like withered leaves.

Through the empty branches the sky remains.
It is what you have.
Be earth now, and evensong.
Be the ground lying under that sky.
Be modest now, like a thing
ripened until it is real,
so that he who began it all
can feel you when he reaches for you.

— Rainer Maria Rilke
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