#poetry

My turn shall also come: I sense the spreading of a wing. ↗

— Osip Mandelstam

#poetry #growth

Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it. ↗

— Raymond Carver

#poetry #unexpected

Springwater grow so thick it gonna clot and the pleasing ladies cease. I figure, yup, you is bad powers. ↗

— John Berryman

#the-dream-songs #dreams

He was a poet; and they are never exactly grown-up. ↗

— J.M. Barrie

#barrie #children #grown-up-poetry #kesnington-gardens #london

With a little more time, patience, and hard work, and above all with a more sensitive taste for the formal aspects of arts, he would have managed to write mediocre poetry, good enough for a lady’s album – and this is always a gallant thing to do, whatever you may say. ↗

— Gustave Flaubert

#poets #art

I. Those of us born by water are never afraid enough of drowning. Bruises used to trophy my knees from my death-defying tree climb jumps. Growing up, my backyard was a forest of blackberry bushes. I learned early nothing sweet will come to you unthorned. II. At twelve your body becomes a currency. So Jenny and I sat down and cut up all our clothes into nothing. That year I failed math class but knew the exact number of calories in a carrot stick. I learned early being desired goes hand in hand with hunger. III. The last time I tried to scream I felt my father climbing up through my throat and into my mouth. IV. There is a certain kind of girl who reads Lolita at fourteen and finds religion. I painted my eyes black and sucked barroom cherries to red my tongue. There was a boy who promised Judas really did love Jesus. I learned early every kiss and betrayal are up for interpretation. V. I think he must have conferenced with my nightmares on exactly how to hurt me. VI. He never broke my heart. He only turned it into a compass that always points me back to him. ↗

— Clementine von Radics

#death

He could build a city. Has a certain capacity. There’s a niche in his chest where a heart would fit perfectly and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place – well then, game over. ↗

— Richard Siken

#richard-siken #niche

Poetry is the liquid voice that can wear through stone. ↗

— Adrienne Rich

#rich

Like the best convenience store in the world, / the mind is always open. ↗

— Leza Lowitz

#poetry #yoga #yoga

What wretched poverty of language! To compare stars to diamonds! ↗

— Gustave Flaubert

#poetry #stars #poverty