May 20, 2020 by Anne ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (Excerpt)

by T. S. Eliot

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

May 17, 2020June 23, 2020 by Anne ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

Not Waving But Drowning

by Stevie Smith

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

“When I say that we are all teen girls”

May 13, 2020August 19, 2020 by Anne ♥ 2 Comments

Olivia Gatwood is one of my favorite contemporary poets. I love her perspective, choice of subject matter, and that her poems are just as strong on paper as they are performed.

Spoken word poetry kind of gets a bad rap in the mainstream, but if you’ve never seen good spoken word before, this is what it looks like.

Excerpt from the poem in the video and her collection Life of the Party:

When I Say That We Are All Teen Girls

What is more teen girl than not being
loved but wanting it so badly
that you accept the smallest crumb and call
yourself full; what is more teen girl than
my father’s favorite wrench, its eternal loyalty
and willingness to loosen the most stubborn of bolts;
what is more teen girl than my mother’s chewed
nail beds, than the whine of the floorboards in her
house?

May 10, 2020May 10, 2020 by Anne ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

who are you,little i

by e e cummings

who are you,little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window;at the gold

of november sunset

(and feeling:that if day
has to become night

this is a beautiful way)

May 6, 2020 by Anne ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

Little Lyric (Of Great Importance)

by Langston Hughes

I wish the rent
Was heaven sent.

A poem for the times

May 4, 2020September 29, 2020 by Anne ♥ 0 Leave a Comment

Hope is the thing with feathers

by Emily Dickinson

That Book Broad

Let's get lit.

Tag: poetry

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (Excerpt)

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

“When I say that we are all teen girls”

who are you,little i

who are you,little i

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

window;at the gold

of november sunset

(and feeling:that if day
has to become night

this is a beautiful way)

Little Lyric (Of Great Importance)

I wish the rent
Was heaven sent.

A poem for the times

Hope is the thing with feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the Gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest Sea;
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock (Excerpt)

For I have known them all already, known them all:Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;I know the voices dying with a dying fallBeneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume?

Share this:

Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,But still he lay moaning:I was much further out than you thoughtAnd not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larkingAnd now he’s deadIt must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always(Still the dead one lay moaning)I was much too far out all my lifeAnd not waving but drowning.

Share this:

Share this:

who are you,little i

who are you,little i

(five or six years old)peering from some high

window;at the gold

of november sunset

(and feeling:that if dayhas to become night

this is a beautiful way)

Share this:

Little Lyric (Of Great Importance)

I wish the rentWas heaven sent.

Share this:

Hope is the thing with feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul, And sings the tune without the words, And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the Gale is heard; And sore must be the storm That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest Sea; Yet, never, in Extremity, It asked a crumb of me.

Share this:

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

(five or six years old)
peering from some high

(and feeling:that if day
has to become night

I wish the rent
Was heaven sent.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the Gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest Sea;
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.