a glorious dawn

mostly void, partially stars

Posts tagged poetry

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All peoples are driven
to the point of eating their gods
after a time: it’s the old greed
for a plateful of outer space, that craving for darkness,
the lust to feel what it does to you
when your teeth meet in divinity, in the flesh,
when you swallow it down
and you can see with its own cold eyes,
look out through murder.
Margaret Atwood, Eating Snake (via godmaking)

(Source: theloupgaroux, via scareomachia)

Filed under poetry wild things

13 notes

i’m not a regular nihilist, i’m a nihilist with a toothache and malfunctioning ovaries


write us a big poem about big things
big feelings that engulf the sky
big moments that drown your heart
big loves that tear you to giddy, hysterical pieces;

no, there are only small things here
the small carcasses of dead hopes
small seconds which drag like centuries
and small wounds which fester unseen;

write us a vast, symphonic poem about the breadth of existence;
for we are small and futile and wish to be deceived.

— Delilah Des Anges (2014)

Filed under poetry

11 notes

Strange Sea


Implausible fish bloom in the depths,
mercurial flowers light up the coast;
I know red and yellow, the other colors,—

but the sea, det granna granna havet, that’s most dangerous

                                                                            to look at.

What name is there for the color that arouses
this thirst, which says,
the saga can happen, even to you —

Edith Södergran

(via happipuutarha)

Filed under poetry I need to read more Södegran I'd like to read it in Swedish but I'd miss any nuance whatever

11 notes

i’m calling this one “for the love of god richard siken stop whining”



My mother told me a lot of things
and the ones about mental health were especially wrong,
but she told me too that boys can smell desperation on you,
and that you must never chase,
only be chased,
and so I stood still for years,
believing that only silence would tell anyone
to start running toward me.
Lots of boys tasted better than
all of my self-medication, in the short run,
but when it came to the marathon,
they were young
and had no stamina.
I mourned the loss of each one
with more medicine
and more blood, and then
I discovered my legs. Slowly, at first,
I learned to give chase,
and the glory of the hunt was divine;
I caught up with a boy. I made him mine.
My mother was wrong about that, too.

Delilah Des Anges (2014)

Filed under ehehe I like some of Siken's stuff but I also enjoy making fun of him poetry I feel I should also point out that I have no idea who wrote the poem in the link

71 notes


Fifteen Ways To Survive Yourself

1. You’ll only read poetry if it’s a list, and that’s sadder than your sense of panic and dislocation.

2. You’ve already started to insulate yourself from emotion and from happiness, but it’s not too late.

3. It’s never too late.

4. Even on your far-off death-bed, there will come a moment when all your pointless concerns fall away and all you can feel is pain, and then no more pain.

5. You don’t believe in poets, only in handy hints.

6. You don’t have time for art.

7. You don’t have time for the taste of these words. You’ll never speak them aloud. 

8. You don’t have time.

9. Maybe the death-bed isn’t as far-off as you want.

10. You’ll read twenty-eight ways to become successful and never once question the definition of “success.”

11. Neither the fridge light nor the torrent site love you, and you’re beginning to believe that there’s nothing behind your eyes for someone to love anyhow.

12. You don’t have the energy to do anythin fun, but you have limitless energy for shouting at people who tell you, in their foolish wisdom, to do something fun.

13. If you close the laptop you’ll have to accept that you’re alone here.

14. There’s a list of five ways to beat depression. You argue with every one; yours is a perfect hell and nothing and no one can release you.

15. You don’t have time to read this poem.

— Delilah Des Anges (2014)

Filed under poetry

79 notes

How on earth did it happen, I used to wonder
that a whole city—arches, pillars, colonnades,
not to mention vehicles and animals—had all
one fine day gone under?

I mean, I said to myself, the world was small then.
Surely a great city must have been missed?
I miss our old city —

white pepper, white pudding, you and I meeting
under fanlights and low skies to go home in it. Maybe
what really happened is

this: the old fable-makers searched hard for a word
to convey that what is gone is gone forever and
never found it. And so, in the best traditions of

where we come from, they gave their sorrow a name
and drowned it.

Eavan Boland, “Atlantis: A Lost Sonnet” (via thehoneyinthelion)

(Source: bustermachineseven, via theteratophile)

Filed under gave their sorrow a name and drowned it poetry

13 notes


A woman in the shape of a monster
a monster in the shape of a woman
the skies are full of them

a woman ‘in the snow
among the Clocks and instruments
or measuring the ground with poles’

in her 98 years to discover
8 comets

she whom the moon ruled
like us
levitating into the night sky
riding the polished lenses

Galaxies of women, there
doing penance for impetuousness
ribs chilled
in those spaces of the mind

An eye,

‘virile, precise and absolutely certain’
from the mad webs of Uranusborg

encountering the NOVA

every impulse of light exploding

from the core
as life flies out of us

Tycho whispering at last
‘Let me not seem to have lived in vain’

What we see, we see
and seeing is changing

the light that shrivels a mountain
and leaves a man alive

Heartbeat of the pulsar
heart sweating through my body

The radio impulse
pouring in from Taurus

I am bombarded yet I stand

I have been standing all my life in the
direct path of a battery of signals
the most accurately transmitted most
untranslatable language in the universe
I am a galactic cloud so deep so invo-
luted that a light wave could take 15 
years to travel through me And has
taken I am an instrument in the shape
of a woman trying to translate pulsations
into images for the relief of the body
and the reconstruction of the mind.

Adrienne Rich, “Planetarium” from The Fact of a Doorframe: Selected Poems 1950-2001

(via theteratophile)

Filed under I think I like the idea/theme more than the execution here I think the rhythm is off or something? I'm sure you care poetry

121 notes

The ocean is full of things that would like to kill you. And other things that would ignore or not understand you, and then eventually kill you. Because they do not have the same understanding or valuation of life and death as humans. There are still other things that you would probably kill, simply because you think they are beautiful, and you want to possess beautiful things because you believe that beauty and sentience are mutually exclusive.

- Welcome to Nightvale 

Episode 40 : The Deft Bowman

(via tangldupinblue)

(Source: gym-leader-wallace, via tangldupinblue)

Filed under night vale poetry creatures of the deep also aliens I TAG HOW I WANT

8 notes

Peach pink lipgloss leaves my lips
soft and smudged: You always
wear that shade and so do I
after you kiss me and I forget to
wipe it off, your gap-toothed smile

Some stuck on your tooth, Oh

Virgin oh Snow White
the brand is called Wet ‘n Wild
not tested on animals, cheap
texture, uneven result

When you dance they look
they look because your waist to hip
ratio is desired and you imitate
ancient acts, your body singing
that luring melody, the oldest song, Ah

Salome of the discotheque
your glitter top your push-up bra
stone-washed jeans they play Shakira
trance dance magic ritual
pear cider on the floor, high heels

When you smile at others I become ugly
the wrath grows inside me, dulls my face, Oh

Primadonna ballet dancer!
Ease it
Strip it
Tease it, you

Working class princess, you could
have anyone here, this guy or that one
the bartender girl with her short hair
purple nails, tiny diamonds on them

Fuck them in the bathroom, leave that
sickly sweet peach smell on their sweaty
bodies, drunk vulgar necks

Peach pink lipgloss, I taste the jealousy, Oh
Goddess oh Baby
It’s with me you leave the bar, time after time

Our days spun cotton candy
nights of sinning bliss

Limbo [edited from the old version] 2013 / 2014 (via cabaretfurs)

(Source: mouchetted)

Filed under poetry

5,772 notes

And I still don’t know if I’m a falcon,
a storm, or an unfinished song.
Rainer Maria Rilke, closing lines to “Ich lebe mein Leben in waschsenden Ringen (I live my life in widening circles),” from Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God, tran. Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy (Riverhead Books, 1996)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via mouchetted)

Filed under poetry wild things