One Day I'll Be Living Peacefully In A Nice Cozy Apartment And Nothing's Gonna Bother Me

my drive home from work yesterday

The Rotted Man

When I was a child of only three The Rotted man came for me late one night from my open door he slowly crept across the floor he took me by the hand and said I’ll save you from this life of dread we left the house in the early morn and took his carriage of blackened thorn we rode for hours through thick dense fog to a darkened unlit swamp filled bog where top-less trees with hanging moss were shields from the unseen winter frost the thick wet heat from the dense cool air crept up your back and through your hair he took me to his house of bones on a path laid with cobble stones upon his door hung a head of a child with hair of fiery red his hall was bathed in blood red tile the walls were stacks of flesh in piles He told me of his protective view and begged that I should join him too He smiled and through his rotted lips I saw a thousand children’s fingertips He promised me the world would pay and told me that I could stay Then we entered a smaller room and the rotted man gave me a red balloon Then I saw my mom through tinted glass The man with her was talking fast The tears were pouring from her eyes The man then held her while she cried Then the Rotted man did the strangest thing, He sat down with me and began to sing. A soft nice tune that filled my head With puppy dogs and fresh baked bread It was then I notice that the rotted man Was simply old and had a tan, And then my mom burst in the room The feel of warmth, her sweet perfume She hugged me tight and swore to me From here on out, Dad would let us be. No more bruises no more fights, No more screaming in the night, The rotted man had saved our lives, By taking those who beat their wives, And children that cry when they’re dropped, And are beaten senseless until they stop, I thank the Rotted man a lot, And never have I forgot, That the thing I feared, saved my life, They had found my father with a knife, There are real horrors on this earth, Some are subjected to them at birth, We were saved by a man made of rot, I was lucky, but many are not.

by thelirivalley

Ada Limón, “To Be Made Whole”, On Being with Krista Tippett

Pablo Neruda, tr. by Mark Eisner, "One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII", The Essential Neruda: Selected Poems

I saw a city die

However dramatic we make death out to be, really, a human death is quite easy. Your heart stops. Once. One kind of death for everyone.

Have you ever seen a city die? It's not one death. It's uncountable. A tree so big you can't watch its fall. Like you can't watch the sun travel. There it is. You get distracted. Something flashes on your wall. You look out. It is gone.

A city's deaths are very varied. Some are gardens dying. Some gardens don't die, but really they do. Really, they're dead.

Some are wild trees dying. The ones we watered by mistake, or by a thread of benevolence. Strung through palms and generations, maybe. A collective nurturing, and every solitary splash thought it was alone. They die, until they become the kind of sticks who's snaps are anonymous. There is nothing here.

Some are people leaving. There are a lot of those. But if you watch people leave, you notice they were the ones who came in the first place. Not the ones who already were.

The ones who already were always are. They are the city. Killing an elephant takes rounds of lead to the heart. Still it takes hours untill it falls, days until it stops breathing. It's not easy, killing a dragon. Those that are must be killed differently. They do not leave. But you can make their home hostile to them. Twist and contort it until those that are have no place to be. They find a new spot, of course. A new city. Who's life blood they aren't.

A city dies a hundred deaths. Like watching someone assemble a puzzle, it's not dramatic enough to watch the process. Like sand falling. Suddenly the glass is empty.

The problem is the body. It's our symbol, vessel and object of death. Without it we don't recognise decay.

Death of a city is the rarest thing you'll see. The bigger, the less you see it. The most imposing, the less you'll watch. The more lights, the less you notice the void.

Because it's a lie. And when you notice. Finally notice,

all you see are the whisps; floating. No sound. Unwatched. No meaning in silence. Nothing. Pathetic in the way they outline whatever isn't there anymore.

Fuck them. Fuck them for laughing. Fuck them for being so mindless. It hurts even worse knowing laughing at pain wasn't a conscious decision. It came so naturally to them.

Fuck them for having the power to hurt me without even thinking about it.

//—i thought about adding what situation exactly I mean but does it even matter

Happy New Year!

Here's a rabbit to start off 2023.

hi pauline - my friend is trying to get into poetry (and reading in general) but hasn't really read much, and i was wondering if you know any poems/poets that are good for a beginner?

oh man I remember the first thrills of poetry creeping up on me. here is a list of good poems for beginners that have been sweeping me off my feet for years and will hopefully do the same to your friend. most poets mentioned here are really great for beginners in my opinion so feel free to explore more of their works

“Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver

“The Thing Is” by Ellen Bass

“How to Not Be a Perfectionist” by Molly Brodak

“A Blessing” by James Wright

“Having a Coke with You” by Frank O’Hara

“What the Living Do” by Marie Howe

“Gate A-4” by Naomi Shihab Nye

“Stolen Moments” by Kim Addonizio

“Ode to Friendship” by Noor Hindi

“Wish” by W. S. Merwin

“The Great Blue Heron of Dunbar Road” by Ada Limón

“Elegy for My Sadness” by Chen Chen

“When I Tell My Husband I Miss the Sun, He Knows” by Paige Lewis

“For M” by Mikko Harvey

“Try to Praise the Mutilated World” by Adam Zagajewski

“Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong” by Ocean Vuong

“[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]” by e.e. cummings

“Small Kindnesses” by Danusha Laméris

“Good Bones” by Maggie Smith

“The Peace of Wild Things” by Wendell Berry

“Please Read” by Mary Ruefle

“Grass Moon” by Matthew Dickman

“O Small Sad Ecstasy of Love” by Anne Carson

“Mountain Dew Commercial Disguised as a Love Poem” by Matthew Olzmann

I'll tell you a secret: I felt like I was better. It couldn't happen to me. I was worldly and supported and had a plan and I spoke well and in 2 languages. The world was waiting to unlock itself to my potential. Back then, I had the secret fear that the world was too small for me.

And it happened anyway. The terrible cliché I felt too good for. I got stuck in the home town. Plans didn't work, and suddenly almost a year had passed and I'd spent it in an internship that was my plan H in a place that was my plan Never. And now, with bloody fingernails, I've held on to the easiest dream I had. Not even the pretty, big ones that I thought I'd conquer for fun and joy. The easy one. And I'm sick. Two years at a minimum, first time I've been sick like this. I can do nothing.

Time is running out and university is drawing closer and I was sixteen in a school I hated and I PROMISED myself I wouldn't let it come to this. I wouldn't cave. I'd take the time I want and I'd see the world and I thought I was so prepared. I thought the world was waiting for me. I thought I was so privileged. I thought that meant everything would be butterflies.

Why can't it be butterflies.