Feb 16, 2023
from at riverside and avondale, by sandra simonds
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from at riverside and avondale, by sandra simonds
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April 8, 2022: Pippi Longstocking, Sandra Simonds
Pippi Longstocking Sandra Simonds  Is it Spanish? No, Swedish.    Whatâs that? Where Loki came from.
Writing about RagnarĂśk in the purple octopi   of a gel pen, itâs the end    of the world and a gigantic wolf
is going to swallow   the coagulated sun whole. Myth, wish fulfillment. He broke  the strongest chains ever built.
He was strong. He won. Iâm not strong. I donât win.
Pippi is strong too. And smart.
Sit with me, little one, inside this mansion   of June hieroglyphics, inside the belles lettres of fluttering   paper-doll tomorrrows,
and mourn  how we never lived.
â
Today in:
2021:Â Waking After the Surgery, Leila Chatti 2020: Gutbucket, Kevin Young 2019: Insomnia, Linda Pastan 2018: How Many Nights, Galway Kinnell 2017: The Little Book of Hand Shadows, Deborah Digges 2016: Now I Pray, Kathy Engel 2015: Why Iâm Here, Jacqueline Berger 2014: Snow, Aldo, Kate DiCamillo 2013: from The Escape, Philip Levine 2012: Thirst, Mary Oliver 2011: Getting Away with It, Jack Gilbert 2010: *turning, Annie Guthrie 2009: I Donât Fear Death, Sandra Beasley 2008: The Dover Bitch, Anthony Hecht 2007: Death Comes To Me Again, A Girl, Dorianne Laux 2006: Up Jumped Spring, Al Young 2005: Old Women in Eliot Poems, David Wright
I crash like a bombed-out calamity / I am no good for anyone
â Sandra Simonds, from Atopia
"in a cubicle and suddenly out of nowhereÂ
thereâs a bear on your screenÂ
that maybe 50 other people in the world catchÂ
a glimpse of. Maybe they are on a break fromÂ
Facebook or filling out a spreadsheet and BOOM, a bear.Â
-Sandra SimondsÂ
 Good Morning, Internet!Â
 HAPPY FAT BEAR WEEK!Â
XO, SPD
from Atopia | Sandra Simonds
I am a terrible American I am so suicidal I am a terrible suicidal American who throws herself into your desiccated bank vaults Yet I do not want America to kill me before I kill myself I canât stand my positive acquisitions I throw them to the dogs like marrowless bones I canât stand my drinking Iâm sorry that I destroyed you by the fires of money I feel no nationalism I feel no nationalism in my heart, my hands, my brain or my pussy I myself am worse than a rogue state I feel peeled away from society I will never leave the bed I will never enter the cold winds of money I want to die in my bed with the covers over my head The books I have written for other people sicken me like plague The books I have written for so little money like a ghost tripping on the pavement I will be forced out of my enemyâs hands like ghosts in the wavy grasses America, I am the moors you lack My voice crosses you like some bleak financial awareness I crash like a bombed out calamity I am no good for anyone The vines of my thoughts are the cries of your abandoned people and animals I am the home of the birds and thatâs all I will ever be Inside my heart is a boat of Noahs I am the town washed away by starvation and flooding I am the downed power lines of your literature I spark up from the pavement like the jolting of a corpse I am that corpse who jolts up and goes on a long walk America, I am the long walk of your lost wilderness
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The red bird falls from the tree, lands on its head, rolls right back up on its feet. Hello, spring. Hello, sanity. Hello, trashfire century. Hello, wilted leaves and gothic vines.
Sandra Simonds, âApril,â published in The New Yorker
Maybe silence adds to the pain and maybe pain adds to the sea and maybe the sea is only a reflection of a ruin today where the mind is unable to make out how things used to be for us: complete, with deities, a kind of order.
Sandra Simonds, from Lindos, Greece
No. / Poetry is not harmless.
â Sandra Simonds, from Atopia