wutheringss:

A Romantic Poetry Rec List
a (very) brief selection of love poems

• The Sun Rising • The Canonization - John Donne
• Bright Star - John Keats
• Brown Penny • He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven - W.B. Yeats
• Wild nights! Wild nights! - Emily Dickinson
• Anne Hathaway • Valentine - Carol Ann Duffy
• She Walks In Beauty - Lord Byron
• To His Coy Mistress • The Definition of Love - Andrew Marvell
• Traveler - Heather Sommer
• One Day I Wrote Her Name Upon the Strand - Edmund Spenser
• O Tell Me The Truth About Love - W.H. Auden
• Love’s Philosophy - Percy Bysshe Shelley
• In Paris With You - James Fenton
• Love Sonnet XVII • Every Day You Play - Pablo Neruda
• Sonnet 130 - Shakespeare
• somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond • i carry your heart with me • if everything happens that can’t be done - e.e. cummings

Echo of a Howl.

inksplattersandearlyhours:

My generation is howling
Screaming for a choice, a voice, a sense of self,
of importance in this endless numbing wave of noise

from buzzing computers and phones and eyes,
endless eyes,
to watch us and each other because we are all voyeurs now,
rendered silent stalkers,
helpless as real life passes and we can only comment and like and reblog
chanting with the eyeless masses because we can’t speak alone;
because now there’s already a piece of soulless machinery to do it for us.

Kerouac and Ginsberg and Cassidy have been castrated.
Shanked and skinned down into bite-sized pieces
to feed to mind-numbed hipsters
who scream out “I’m real! I’m unique! I’m special!”

as they comment and like and reblog
and pretend they know beauty because they’ve seen it through a screen
and don’t listen to me because I’m one of them!
We all are because they have learnt.

These companies and corperations and factories and their thugs-
- including that smiling man in Parliament, in the White House,
it’s the same plastic mask sprouting promises, promises, promises

as we comment and like and reblog
while businessmen rub their grease-slicked palms because they know
they’ve learnt how to numb our minds.

Watch, eyeless, as they churn out endless wave of filth and gossip and pink-plastic idols to worship and suckle
to keep us happy and numb with empty pockets
covered by printed paper of shallow words of promises, promises,

of meaning and a voice.
To keep us empty and desperate for more,

to comment and like and reblog because we are so desperate for that love,

for that beauty.
But that’s in the eye of the beholder and we’re all blind now.

We skim along the surface of life, held aloft by dirty smoke and greasy hands,
blind and dumb so we never see our reflections
to find that we’re not flying at all but drowning, screaming,
howling.

R. White

mostlyfiction:

Love isn’t about
   fucking each other
at any opportunity.

It also isn’t about
  how many months
or years
  that you’ve been together.

To me,
  love is about 
being able to see light
  inside of the person
who knows nothing
   but darkness.

Fuck

eating-poetry:

Fuck by Kim Addonizio

There are people who will tell you
that using the word fuck in a poem
indicates a serious lapse
of taste, or imagination,

or both. It’s vulgar,
indecorous, an obscenity
that crashes down like an anvil
falling through a skylight

to land on a restaurant table,
on the white linen, the cut-glass vase of lilacs.
But if you were sitting
over coffee when the metal

hit your saucer like a missile,
wouldn’t that be the first thing
you’d say? Wouldn’t you leap back
shouting, or at least thinking it,

over and over, bell-note riotously clanging
in the church of your brain
while the solicitous waiter
led you away, wouldn’t you prop

your shaking elbows on the bar
and order your first drink in months,
telling yourself you were lucky
to be alive? And if you wouldn’t

say anything but Mercy or Oh my
or Land sakes, well then
I don’t want to know you anyway
and I don’t give a fuck what you think

of my poem. The world is divided
into those whose opinions matter
and those who will never have
a clue, and if you knew

which one you were I could talk
to you, and tell you that sometimes
there’s only one word that means
what you need it to mean, the way

there’s only one person
when you first fall in love,
or one infant’s cry that calls forth
the burning milk, one name

that you pray to when prayer
is what’s left to you. I’m saying
in the beginning was the word
and it was good, it meant one human

entering another and it’s still
what I love, the word made
flesh. Fuck me, I say to the one
whose lovely body I want close,

and as we fuck I know it’s holy,
a psalm, a hymn, a hammer
ringing down on an anvil,
forging a whole new world.

By Kim Addonizio.

Z.Herbert “Deszcz”.”rain”

thats-fassynating:

RAIN

When my older brother 

came back from the war

he wore a silver star on his forehead

and under the star

nothing

a fragment of a bomshell

hit him at Verdun

or Grunwald

(he can’t exactly remember)

he talked much

in many languages

though the one he liked the most

was the language of the history

until breathless moments

he raised fallen comrades from the ground

his friends- Rolland Feliksiak Hannibal

he cried

that this is the last crusade

that soon Carthage will fall

and then between sobs he confessed

that Napoleon doesn’t like him

we watched

as he paled

senses lost to him

he slowly turned into statue

into musical shells of ears

spread stony forest

skin of his face

was fastened

with two blind and dry

buttons of his eyes

the only thing left was the

sense of touch

and what stories

he told with his hands

in the right one he had romances

in the left memories of a soldier

they took my brother

and removed him outside of a city

he comes back every fall

thin and silent

he doesn’t want to go inside

knocks on my window so I go out

we walk on the streets

and he tells me 

tall stories

touching the face

with blind fingers of tears