^**Ablaze**

Sometimes when my pen hits the paper I start to bleed. 

I scribbled this on a page of notebook paper and decided to post it—just raw and real. 

I wrote this while I felt like everything around me was on fire.

Ablaze

_{_*Subject Index: spoken word poetry, raw emotion writing, trauma poetry, unfiltered prose, poetic rage, healing through writing, mental health expression, survivor poetry, emotional catharsis, dark poetry, stream of consciousness, grief and growth, poetic vulnerability, feminist poetry, writing through pain, confessional writing*_}

More Than I'll Be Doing Anyway

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        If somebody gets off with someone
    at my funeral
    and they have a good ride
    my living shall not have been in vain
  

cross-posted from: https://lemmygrad.ml/post/6915311

I have a hard time understanding the earlier poems though.

I understand the mental imagery, but the meaning behind it all, I can't discern that well.

Here's such an example:

"I can't tell you - but you feel it -

Nor can you tell me-

Saints, with ravished slate and pencil

Solve our April Day!

Sweeter than a vanished frolic

From a vanished green!

Swifter than the hoofs of Horsemen

Round a Ledge of dream!

Modest, let us walk among it

With our faces veiled -

As they say polite Archangels

Do in meeting God!

Not for me - to prate about it!

Not for you - to say

To some fashionable Lady

"Charming April Day"!

Rather - Heaven's "Peter Parley"!

By which Children slow

To sublime Recitation

Are prepared to go!"

Another one:

"So from the mould

Scarlet and Gold

Many a Bulb will Rise

This is OC in that I wrote it, but it was published by Apparition Lit (which is not me).

the Poet is like a sphere with her centre everywhere and his circumference nowhere, without beginning nor end, always rolling, rolling ’round ‘unknowings’ wondrous bend – mostly metaphor is a trick of the light to get these reflections just right, so, you-know, it’s glinting in your eye as you release into the ‘flower of meaning’ with a sigh; like looking at the mesmerizing-sea glimmering-many-Suns, so sympathetic-tessellations resonate in your oceanic-brain, where synapses shivering-sentient luminescence, reflect again ‘n again … then you’re an ecstatic swimming in a whirl’d-view, swooning with another oceanic-dream waving inside of you…

cross-posted from: https://kbin.social/m/13thFloor/t/454289

I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that cl

It was something to do with a man who had returned from war, and only wrote poems about flowers and birds and pleasant things. The last bit was something like: "what was it that he saw, that now he can only write about flowers". Google doesn't seem to know.

Hey all, just joined this community and I'm hoping to share a couple of my poems here. This one I wrote over a decade ago. Here's the text:

Won’t you understand
Why I bit my lips
When I took your hand
And cherished you in small sips.
I’m distracted by the touch of your hair
Your scent and I rejoice in quick sighs
Here, a moment we could share
Here I’ll breathe in deep gorgeous eyes.
You smile beneath our chosen tree
Eyes lit up in a glimmering shine.
I’ll laugh forever in our awful glee
At last freed by burnt bridges and that ignored sign.
But cold memories and abandoned lives build a mass;
We’re taught to remember all is made of glass.

With all your might, with all your might
Bless the people, bless the night

Bless the night with life and humble
Chess the night don't let us stumble

Oh my Lord, with great delight
Bless the people, bless the night

Bless the night with dreams and visions
Bless the night with all its legions

Oh my Lord, your precious hight
Bless the people, bless the night

Bless the night with love and kindness
Bless the night with royal highness

Oh, My Lord with all your might
Bless the people, bless the night

Nurse the night with bay of milk
Fill its lungs with air of silk

Oh my Lord, with all your might
Bless the people, bless the night

Bless the night with sounds of whales
Bless the night with children's prayers

Oh my Lord, with all your light
Bless the people, bless the night

Bless the night with flash and thunder
Bless the night with gentle slumber

Oh my Lord, with all your might
Bless the people, bless the night

Bless the night with scents and odors
Bles

Forgetfulness by Billy Collins

Hello, I'm trying to find a poem I read somewhere once and I'm not having any luck with any search engines. I've also tried chatgpt and it keeps suggesting different poems.

What I remember about the poem: I think the stanzas begin with "I sometimes think..." and the poem ends with something like "in fact I do little but lie on my back, but I sometimes think." Also, it rhymes zinc with think, something like "or study the crystal structure of zinc"

edit: the end is something like this:

I sometimes think I should learn to play the sackbut

or study the crystal structure of zinc

In fact I do little but lie on my back but

I sometimes think

she might prefer to be classed as writing this as something other than poetry but I have to call this poetry to be able to excerpt this and have you read it like I mean you to:

now, I never get tired of complaining about large-limbed men who tuck their mantid knees up under their pianos and flop their long-fingered hands all over the keyboard like so many giant crystal cave spiders climbing a tiny staircase. I have, me, small soft hands like little early-born Angora rabbits. If they were strong that would be all right, but they are not; they are weak, eager, twitchy, undisciplined; and just like Angora rabbits, if you don’t train them with rigor in their first thirteen years they will never be good technicians in later life. So I get angry at my betters. Jealousy is a powerful emotion, and I believe in it. To disdain jealousy is to disdain gasoline because its dirty extraction method makes it no good for starting fires. I mean: you should disd

I remember being a child and stomping about in the forest in wellies and seeing this giant arch of ivy (some tree bent over, maybe, opportunistic climbing invasive species) and the sun filtered through it. I remember thinking "this is the child-magic experience you are supposed to have as a child and I am going to remember this forever". Intentionally standing there for what felt like ages to stare at it and soak in whatever the magic was, desperate to receive.