Mar 31
— Belovéd, Yves Olade (What Are Birds? Transpoetics Prize)
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— Belovéd, Yves Olade (What Are Birds? Transpoetics Prize)
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who are your chess parasites..............
walter/freddie. sometimes when you are the best chess player in the world suffering from ambiguous disorder and moments away from causing cuban missile crisis the second, your appointed CIA handler should probably step in and handle you, if you catch my drift
this poet’s work ✨✨ _____ Poem: Yves Olade the very first poet we featured on Kingdoms in the Wild last summer _____ #poeticmind #purepoetry #yvesolade #saturdayreads
yves! ✨
yves: amber, gold, flecks of light trapped in resin, sunlight at dusk, honey & syrup, a heavy & heady kind of sweetness, maple leaves, fairy rings at the base of an oak tree, the road less travelled, magic & magic & magic.
name aesthetics
HOW RARE & BEAUTIFUL IT IS TO EXIST
there was a flare in the atmosphere, quiet & humming, & the dust choked all of us up. i wouldn’t say it was grief that held me off
from seeing you burn so completely you become saturn, but rather that i couldn’t bear to see something i can never touch to just–die.
58 minutes before we could even snatch the final signal you were already silent. & oh God, star-smelting, planet-crushing God,
i can’t believe we were here just to see a machine spark into white & silence & then          nothing. here, for a final breath that we couldn’t even witness.
but who am i kidding? cassini, you would laugh at me. the hands who pulled you to hum would tremble, Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â but they would
also join you. i’m being selfish, really. yes, you were only machine but you were also our shred of hope. you were humanity, gnashing gravity
with its teeth & saying, we will not be held back by this bullshit. we will not stay rooted here, when we know what fuckery this universe
is capable of. fuck, you laughed at us, didn’t you. still, you said, sure. i’ll do exactly that. then you plunged into a darkness that no other metalÂ
                         could ever dream to know, a silence none of the skin that made you could ever touch.
cassini, you broke apart into hope-hush,           into the proudest nothing we could ever see.
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                         half- finished and aching, I was a dangerous thing —an injured animal still hunting. Birds flinched from my hands and flowers withered into kindling. My own blood refused to run through my fingers
“Nowhere, Santa Clara” by Yves Olade, published in The Rising Phoenix Review
🍓🍓🍓🍓🍓
yves my love — i’m so glad that one of your lovely friends came in to my inbox one day to tell me that a poem of yours was being published and i should check it out, so i did and it was incredible. i adore your poetry and i adore you, you’re very kind to me and i’m always thankful when you give me advice or reassurance during my uni spirals. i’m very lucky to have around even if you like to engage in light harassment on twitter. basically: you’re baby.
I have always understood why vultures mate for life. You can’t live among a sickness without starting to become it. There is a quiet kind of dying in always waiting                     for death.
— Yves Olade, “antinous among the reeds”Â