Instagram story viewer> @poetrygroupchat> Posts

poems circulated in the gc

@poetrygroupchat

1.2K

followers

12

following

brought to you by @edotjin @marieungar @ezraleb and @pnwhitehouse

POSTS STORIES REELS TAGGED

Dust by Dorianne Laux

Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor —
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn’�t elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That’�s how it is sometimes —
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you’�re just too tired to open it. by @poetrygroupchat

95

1

6 months ago

“against the weather” by jackson holbert from the georgia review by @poetrygroupchat

25

1

6 months ago

“the duke’s forest” by emily skillings by @poetrygroupchat

25

1

7 months ago

john ashbery, “this room”

The room I entered was a dream of this room.
Surely all those feet on the sofa were mine.
The oval portrait
of a dog was me at an early age.
Something shimmers, something is hushed up.

We had macaroni for lunch every day
except Sunday, when a small quail was induced
to be served to us. Why do I tell you these things?
You are not even here. by @poetrygroupchat

31

0

9 months ago

“the pistil” by ben lerner

Now that nothing has been done
Before, you can speak of the stigma
style and ovary
Fourth whorl of the flower
You can run your tongue
Along the lips of the sleeping
No one has touched
Your hair, described the fall of it
Now you can smoke
Indoors, around your daughters
Windows open to spring
Nights that flare up in winter
Words like transparent
Shells attached to the elms
maples and ash
I hear the people
Because tonight is recycling
Picking through glass
As I write you, slow pour of metal
Into the mold, my speech direct
Because recycled
The prohibition against
Feeling broken like bread
Above the sill, an inferior mirage
Above their heads, minute gaps
Impulses pass through, blue
sparks rise in the dark
Fourth wall of the flower
Splits at maturity, releases
Sentiment, follicle fruit of it, soft
Space between bones of the skull
Where dreams are knitting
Delicate fallacies, now that bees
The coral and ice, white
Noses of bats, it’s time
To write the first poem in English
Each line the last, small
rain turning glass by @poetrygroupchat

15

0

10 months ago

“with my back to the world, 1997” by victoria chang by @poetrygroupchat

37

4

2 years ago

range life by ricardo frasso jaramillo

I have meant so much for you: the desk made out of redwood
to house my lover’s sunflowers. A window’s blue translation
of a world outside. I have meant the frame. I have meant
the framed. Meaning, its effort, plaits even
our longing with longing. Even our regret
with regret, in pink gold. As for me? I operate with the obstinacy
of a lamp. And just the same sense
of intrusion. The same plated light. I have meant so much. As
for me? There is only conjugation and memory. Or to say so
another way: my lover lives two hours north of this poem by car. She fills the mornings
looking for a parcel of white deer. The deer stand still as description. My lover
moves along their sight. In another life, the deer
were carried to Mendocino from Iran. They will die away
any day now, for lack of a stag. Their nature
is muted, without place. But they have meant so much. They have meant
while my lover hunts their grammar from the summer light. by @poetrygroupchat

16

1

2 years ago

vértigos o contemplación de algo que termina by alejandra pizarnik, with eng translation by yvette siegert

english:
The lilac unleaves.
It falls from itself
and hides its ancient shadow.
I will die of such things.

spanish:
Esta lila se deshoja.
Desde sí mismo cae
y oculta su antigua sombre.
He de morir de cosas así. by @poetrygroupchat

21

0

2 years ago

‘younger than war’ by mosab abu toha

text:

Tanks roll through dust,
through eggplant fields.

Beds unmade, lightning in the sky, brother
jumping to the window to watch warplanes.

Clouds of smoke
after air strikes.

Warplanes: eagles
searching for a branch on which to perch.

No need for radio:
We are the news.

Ants' ears hurt with each bullet
fired from wrathful machine guns.

Soldiers advance, burn books.
Some smoke rolled sheets of yesterday's newspapers,

just like they did
when they were kids.

Our kids hide in the basement,
backs against concrete pillars,

heads between knees,
parents silent.

Humid down there
and the heat of burning bombs

adds to the slow death
of survival.

In September 2000,
I bought bread for dinner.

I saw a helicopter fire a rocket
into a tower,

concrete and glass
fell from high.

Loaves
of stale bread.

At the time,
I was seven:

decades younger than war,
a few years older than bombs. by @poetrygroupchat

19

1

2 years ago

“dream of a dog” by emily berry

My life, and all our lives, I said sleepily,
so soft now, like the neck of a sleeping dog,
I lay my hand on it, as you have lain your hand
on mine (on my life), this tenderly, as the dog
noses deeper into sleep, as she sighs the way
a dreaming dog does, I wish my life was in
your dream, dog, I think it is, and she turns
onto her back so her stomach rises pale and
softly furred, and your words are travelling
through me, or, no, they travel over me, the
way a breeze makes fabric touch us, the fabric
of half-drawn curtains billowing from an open
window, as I pass and glance out on such
a day, the dog whimpering softly in sleep;
perhaps it’s that you say I should have faith,
or that you have faith, in increments, while
my shoes are nosing through leaves and the
dog is alert or disappears (but she comes back),
if I had a dog she would be a kind of faith,
I would lift her onto my shoulder, the points
of her ears very elfin and her face, serious, tilted
to regard you, she would get down and run
and then, from a distance, up a slight incline,
when I call her, look back, then run on,
and I do believe in increments, as when
the dog brings me, in her dream, pine cones,
when she wriggles in my arms, her ribcage
strung like an archer’s bow, when her paws
bend at the wrist in supplication, I do not see
the slow wheels in my blood turning, but
I ride them, I do not see what I know
and everything beneath that, which I may
come to know, or may not, the slow slow
discernment of the deep layer, air bubbles
rising from the dead zone, the dog in her
dream talismanic on a hilltop, the soft tips
of her ears in sleep, a slight sigh, all my life. by @poetrygroupchat

20

0

2 years ago

“poem” by matthew rohrer

text:

You called, you’re on the train, on Sunday,
I have just taken a shower and await
you. Clouds are slipping in off the ocean,
but the room is gently lit by the green
shirt you gave me. I have been practicing
a new way to say hello and it is fantastic.
You were so sad: goodbye. I was so sad.
All the shops were closed but the sky
was high and blue. I tried to walk it off
but I must have walked in the wrong direction. by @poetrygroupchat

36

2

2 years ago

“annunciation” by marie howe

Even if I don’t see it again — nor ever feel it
I know it is — and that if once it hailed me
it ever does—

And so it is myself I want to turn in that direction
not as toward a place, but it was a tilting
within myself,

as one turns a mirror to flash the light to where
it isn’t — I was blinded like that — and swam
in what shone at me

only able to endure it by being no one and so
specifically myself I thought I’d die
from being loved like that. taken in West Philadelphia by @poetrygroupchat

10

1

3 years ago