I just LOVED this line when I read this poem

11 Questions

Tagged by @sonador-reveur @paratmin and @oneamateurgirl1612 Thanks for tagging and sorry if I missed anyone, mention notifications seem to be AWOL 😀

1) How many works in progress to do you currently have?
Loads, I have several notes pages of vague ideas and half rhymes. Some of them are destined to remain unfinished though 😂

2) Do you/would you write fan fiction?
I lack the planning, stamina and concentration needed for things longer than 24 lines, so probably not gonna happen.

3) Do you prefer real books or ebooks?
Both, I’ll read anything I can get my hands on 📕📗📘📙📔📓📖📱

4) When did you start writing?
I started this blog in 2013, but I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember 📝

5) Do you have someone you trust that you share your work with?
All of you lovely Tumblr people 😁 My family have probably read 100-200 of my rhymes at most, not because I don’t trust them. They know about my blog, they’re just not that into poetry. Plus the thought of reading 1000 poems is a bit daunting 😂🤣😱

6) Where is your favourite place to write?
On the couch with coffee ☕️

7) Favourite childhood book?
Revolting Rhymes by Roald Dahl and anything by Paul Jennings

8) Writing for fun or writing for publication?
For fun and entertainment, if I was writing for publication I’d be a very disappointed poet 😂

9) Pen and paper or computer?
iPad or iPhone mostly. I do write out finished poems in notebooks though

10) Have you ever taken any writing classes?
Nope, it’s something I’d like to do one day though

11) What inspires you to write?
Everything. I write down ideas when I have them so that when I’m struggling, I can go through my notes and something generally pops out. Failing that, I read loads of poetry which is inspiring. Poetry Prompt blogs are always good for inspiration too.

Seamus Heaney reads his poem The Blackbird Of Glanmore

The Blackbird Of Glanmore
by Seamus Heaney (1939-2013)

On the grass when I arrive,
Filling the stillness with life,
But ready to scare off
At the very first wrong move,
In the ivy when I leave,

It’s you, blackbird, I love.

I park, pause, take heed.
Breathe. Just breathe and sit
And lines I once translated
Come back: “I want away
To the house of death, to my father

Under the low clay roof.”

And I think of one gone to him,
A little stillness dancer -
Haunter-son, lost brother -
Cavorting through the yard,
So glad to see me home,

My homesick first term over.

And think of a neighbour’s words
Long after the accident;
“Yon bird on the shed roof,
Up on the ridge for weeks -
I said nothing at the time

But I never liked yon bird.”

The automatic lock
Clunks shut, the blackbird’s panic
Is shortlived, for a second
I’ve a bird’s eye view of myself,
A shadow on raked gravel

In front of my house of life.

Hedge-hop, I am absolute
For you, your ready talkback,
Your each stand-offish comeback,
Your picky, nervy goldbeak -
On the grass when I arrive,

In the ivy when I leave.

I don’t know if this is love but I know you’re the first person I want to talk to when I wake up and the last person I want to see before I fall asleep. And I know that when I imagine my future there’s not a single time that you’re not in it.

I know that sometimes I mark pages I books because I want to read you that line, I know that when everything inside me hurts I only want to see you.

I know that missing you is worse than any pain I’ve felt and I know that seeing you unhappy tears me apart.

I don’t know if this is love, but I never want to stop hearing your laugh or feeling your cold toes on my calf or watching you burn pancakes in the morning.

I don’t know if this is love, I just know that I never want it to end.

-K.M.

Why love when it's not real

It’s midnight
and he
texted me again

Why ? ..
I don’t understand why ..
He doesn’t love me
But he says he does

He’s only in love
With the thought of being in love
But Not the real me

He’s lonely
so he loves me
He’s horny
so he wants me

But he doesn’t love me
I read him
like my favorite book
I know every line
word by word
Like his every move

You don’t love me
Your just scared to be alone .

-Bella Cortez

anonymous asked:

Hey Azra, was hoping you could help me out a bit. I know you love the lines from 'Perhaps Patagonia' by Kate Clanchy and was wondering if you could share with me your interpretation of the poem? When I read it, it doesn't feel like it's meant to be terribly sad but I just sit there with an overwhelming sense of loss and emptiness in my chest at the lines: When I spoke of Patagonia, I meantSkies all empty aching blue. I meant Years. I meant all of them with you. Thank you!

Sometimes when I read certain poetry I can’t analyse at all why it makes me feel the way that I do because it doesn’t actually always make sense. Some writers don’t make any sense to me in the way that words are put together to form a cohesive sentence which you can understand, sometimes in poetry, words are put together to just make you feel like you’ve been punched in the stomach. 

Things like Katie Fallandays and “I want to eat your sparrow, come here. I want to lick your sparrow claws, come here. I want to suck your fingers off, come here. I want to give you your history back.” There are lines in that piece which bring to my knees and more often than not, they’re the lines that don’t make any fucking sense! 

Emily O’ Neill: “The memory of eye teeth
in my shoulder. The print of his rushed thumb
on my wrist. Forgive my stumble.
All I know of falling is finding the ground.”

Poetry really is all that you make of it. You find things that other people don’t, and they see things that you can’t. Sorry it took me so long to answer your question but that quote for me ‘I meant skies, all empty aching blue, I meant years, I meant all of them with you.’ Is just about longing and want and seeing the stretch of the world in front of you and thinking that you want to spend it with just one someone. 

Sometimes I think things would have been better between us if we hadn’t apologized. If we had just left when things were bad rather than trying to fix something that in the end would turn out worse. Because now all I can think of is your last words to me. They keep replaying in my head like a broken CD skipping over the same line. It sticks in your head for a few days and it’s all you can think about. Your final words saying “I loved you; I’m sorry, but I don’t love you anymore. We were a beautiful pair and good things must come to an end.”

James Tate died today. I didn’t know him well, personally, but so many people I love very much did. Right now, the loss feels like a big hole, like time passing in that terrible way it does. His poems meant a lot to so many people, and they meant a lot to me. I can take solace in knowing they will always be there. With his life, he has done a very good thing. 

I taught myself how to read poems, write poems, and love poems, by reading James Tate’s poems. Nearly 20 years ago, he quickly became the poet who wrote the poems that vibrated at my frequency. 

Even this past week, I had the luxury of hearing him speak about poetry at the Juniper Institute. I wrote down a lot of what he said that day. I forget the questions exactly, but his answers were, “I know for certain that I don’t know,” and “I knew nothing,” and “I was amazed by my own naiveté,” and “I’m not a genius or anything,” and “You know, you don’t have to be a scholar,” and “I only had three keys, but there were 50 locked doors.” And of where his ideas for poems come from, he also said, “I was just trying to solve something that had been haunting me my whole life.” He continually reminds me, as I read him, and as I listened to him speak just last week, that poetry, for me, is a fun and necessary adventure.

Here is James Tate reading a poem called The New Mayor. I recorded him reading it just two weeks ago.

I hope you’ll all re-read your favorite James Tate book this week. And if you’ve never read him, I hope you’ll read your first. You can start with this poem, from one of my favorite books, Memoir of the Hawk. It is the poem after which I named this blog, when I started it way back in 2003. Its last lines now shake me up even more today. 


THE LOVELY ARC OF A METEOR IN THE NIGHT SKY

At the party there were those sage souls
who swam along the bottom like those huge white
fish who live for hundreds of years but have no
fun. They are nearly blind and need the cold.
William was a stingray guarding his cave. Only
those prepared for mortal battle came close to
him. Closer to the surface the smaller fish
played, swimming in mixed patterns only a god
could decipher. They gossiped and fed and sparred
and consumed, and some no doubt even spawned.
It’s a life filled with agitation, thrills,
melodrama and twittery, but too soon it’s over.
And nothing’s revealed because it was never known.

anonymous asked:

i'm so inspired by you. i want to start writing. how did you begin writitng?

Awh, thank you (: I’ve never not written. My mom found old books the other day full of horrible poems I wrote before I even really knew how to spell and weird stories about an owl buying the moon a hat. I’ve been writing almost every day since I knew how to. You’ve just got to write and read a lot. Write even when you don’t feel like you have anything to write about, you do. You always do. Buy a journal and your favorite pen and just write. Read your favorite books and underline the sentences you wish you came up with. Read books and poems that people you love love. Read poets who don’t write the way you do at all. Read diaries of famous people. Frida Kahlo’s is beautiful. So are Anais Nin’s. The majority of the things I write are written at 2 in the morning when I’m overly romantic and weird. Write all of the time until you keep pushing out beautiful and fucked up lines at a certain time. Try to always write at that time. I never force anything. I never edit anything. Write poems. Write stories. Write about nothing. Write about bullshit. Describe the people you love. Describe the people you meet. I don’t do that enough because I feel like I can’t capture them. I don’t want to write who they are the wrong way. But I think its a great exercise to do. I carry my journal with me everywhere and my favorite pens. I won’t leave the house without either. Just write. Write and write and write. Forever.

I will leave stains on your favorite sweater,
the ink will look like my blood and some days it is.
I have metaphors lodged in my chest
and my heart has found a home on my sleeve.
Every time we touch I will leave paper cuts on your skin.
And when we are in bed
and you are watching your favorite shows,
muttering the best lines to yourself.
I will be a million miles away
frantically scribbling today’s thoughts in a notebook.
At 3 am when you awake to an empty bed
and a house alive with the sounds of a clicking keyboard,
you will ask me to come back to you.
Please understand that I can’t.
Not just yet.
I have too much to say
and I’m always forgetting.
This is not to say I don’t love you.
These words are my heartbeat,
these words are my bloodline.
I’m giving you these poems.
Read each one carefully.
You will hear I love you in every line.