the heaven Aedh wished for

Gasparo Visconti (1683-1731) - Trio Sonata for 2 Violins in F-Major, Op. 1 No. 7.

I. Grave II. Presto III. Grave IV. Presto

Honestly, anything like Richard Siken or something you would recommend that is poetic, passionate and tragic and wistful.

Thank you! Below i’ve listed some poets you might like. Some of them do not necessarily write in the same style as Richard Siken, but their poems, to me, have got the same “smell”.

Ocean Vuong 

Young enough to believe nothing will change them, they step, hand-in-hand, into the bomb crater. The night full of  black teeth. His faux Rolex, weeks from shattering against her cheek, now dims like a miniature moon behind her hair. In this version the snake is headless — stilled like a cord unraveled from the lovers’ ankles.

Jericho Brown

  This is what our dying looks like. You believe in the sun. I believe I can’t love you. Always be closing, Said our favorite professor before He let the gun go off in his mouth.

Lang Leav 

I still search for you in crowds, in empty fields and soaring clouds. In city lights and passing cars, on winding roads and wishing stars.

Sylvia Plath

I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

Matthew Dickman

When grief comes to you as a purple gorilla you must count yourself lucky. You must offer her what’s left of your dinner, the book you were trying to finish you must put aside and make her a place to sit at the foot of your bed ...

Mary Ruefle 

I take the bird on the woodpile, separate it from its function, feather by feather. I blow up its scale. I make a whole life out of it: everywhere I am, its sense of loitering lights on my shoulder. 

Carl Phillips

Under the night, somewhere between the white that is nothing so much as   blue, and the black that is, finally; nothing,   I am the man neither of you remembers.  

Ada Limon 

I like the lady horses best, how they make it all look easy, like running 40 miles per hour is as fun as taking a nap, or grass. I like their lady horse swagger, after winning. Ears up, girls, ears up! But mainly, let’s be honest, I like that they’re ladies.

Louise Glück 

Staying was my way of hitting back. I tended his anemia and did the dishes Four months—the whole vicious, Standard cohabitation. But my dear, my dear, If now I dream about your hands, your hair, It is the vividness of that dead end I miss. Like chess. Mind against mind.

Mary Oliver

June, July, August. Every day, we hear their laughter. I think of the painting by van Gogh, the man in the chair. Everything wrong, and nowhere to go. His hands over his eyes.

Rainer Maria Rilke

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone    enough to truly consecrate the hour. I am much too small in this world, yet not small    enough to be to you just object and thing, dark and smart.

Charles Bukowski (someone said unabashed anguish?)

there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movements of the hands of a clock

there is a loneliness in this world so great that you can see it blinking in neon signs in Vegas, in Baltimore, in Munich