Louise GlĂĽck, Poems 1962-2012

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@figurativelybutliterally
Louise GlĂĽck, Poems 1962-2012

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Feedback is very much appreciated on this one! It’s part of a collection I’m developing, more to come soon :)
Apologies for the long absence, winter always hits hard. Hope you’re all getting through it as best you can. Hang in there friends.
~a.
In the backwaters of rural Somewhere, there is a forgotten little cemetery on a hill so bright with leaves, the gravestones are silhouetted against it like an orange sunset.
On the anniversary of my death
the clock ticks by without a noise.
Yet one day,
in how many years -
in fifteen, eighty, four?
I’ll float through the same old dance,
but my heart won’t beat anymore.

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1923 Magnolia Ave.
A faded FOR SALE! sign clings to the front lawn of the house by the claws of a ragged shadow, growing dark and long with age. In the hour before sunset, it extends onto the street beyond, reaching into the town’s view for the briefest moment before it is swallowed up by night.
There are next-door neighbors who pass by it like this, switching to the other side of the street almost unconsciously on their evening strolls and last-minute errands. The shadow encourages their steps to pick up with their heartrates – there is something about the house that deflects gazes and ruminations just as a rainwater puddle shields itself with the gray sky it fell from. Thus, the townsfolk pass by the signage as if its text is not a call to them, but a fixture of the landscape.
I am shrouded
In the villain’s monologue
Overthought, overwrought
Crafted in theatric forges
With heavy drops from
Hammers of intention, revolution
But in the end, simply
A means to one.
A safety net woven scarce,
Drawn so thin, the twang
Of frayed edges threatens
A ballad strung out on
Awaited anticipation
And dissident notes
Cascading.
An intermission of thought
From revolutions of deja-vu
And literary exhaustion,
When last year is tomorrow,
But tomorrow is yesterday -
Timelines like stale rivers
Are melted down to the essence
Of what it means to pass.
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My angel’s only friends
Are the poems that
Stay up all morning
To drip onto the page
And chain down the
Words she cannot escape
Without her wings
In the backwaters of rural Somewhere, there is a forgotten little cemetery on a hill so bright with leaves, the gravestones are silhouetted against it like an orange sunset.

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Where all my favorite chaos
Goes to die
There’s rusted ladders that
Fall and fly
To topple luck like
Dominoes, drinking straight from
Gutter smoky skies
There’s no room for fancy
Wishes’ tarnished kisses
Where all my favorite chaos
Goes to die
Where all my favorite chaos
Goes to die
The Apple of my eye
Is a shameless paradigm
Of disappointing outsides
But no monarch cares for shine,
It’s all just part of
The hive
Where all my favorite chaos
Goes to die
reblog to have this spoopy dancing ghost on ur blog
hello!! i just wanna know how you started your blog, because i don't know how start one. Like I want to have my own style or aesthetic in expressing myself. Thank you, very much appreciated :)
This blog started a little less than a year ago because I had a ton of poetry written down in the notes app in my phone that I’d never planned on sharing. I barely had a decent font choice, much less an aesthetic or a direction. Something you should know about me is I’m a massive fan of planning, but nevertheless I find myself advocating for this. Directionlessness can be a remarkable thing.
The beauty of the internet - and tumblr in particular - is that it’s so easy to share without fear of judgement, something that I think not enough people take full advantage of. Go for it, create things that you connect with, and then smile when people tell you they connect with them too. If you’re not feeling it, don’t try to settle into a groove right off the bat, let yourself explore, and I think you’ll find a style you enjoy that’s natural and authentic to you.
a.
I’d wish for
Romeo and Juliet without
The gauze wrapped around
Shards of projected romanticism,
Pasted corners on pages of
Wistful comparison turned
Perception
And faded circumstance.
Oh how lucky it would be
For the closing of the book
To mark dual demise;
But the most tragic tale yet
Is of one heart still
Beating out smudged scratches
Of pens’ strokes
And the second providing
The ink.

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We are tinny cans
Ringing out cries of
Battle horns and laundry
Lines left to crackle and lash
Out in steady anger.
We are footprints
Scuffed on tall tales and
Digging water from wells for
Underwater locked boxes where
All maps lead to molehills.
But hills lie empty, indented
For can-holders, map-bringers,
As the man hunched on piles
Of tarnished marble and gold
Has swallowed the key.
here's a link to a carrd compiling ways you can support the black lives matter movement (made by twt user @dehyedration)
other than listing petitions, places to donate, and where to call/text, it also compiles resources such as threads debunking misinfo, education on black history, and information for protestors. it's being updated regularly