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77 notes

I am the mirror breathing above the sink.
There is a censored garden inside of me.
Over my worms someone has thrown

a delicately embroidered sheet.

And also the child at the rummage sale–

more souvenirs than memories.

I am the cat buried beneath
the tangled ivy. Also the white
weightless egg
floating over its grave. Snow

where there were leaves. Empty
plastic cups after the party on the beach.

I am ash rising above a fire, like a flame.
The Sphinx with so much sand
blowing vaguely in her face. The last

shadow that passed
over the blank canvas
in the empty art museum. I am

the impossibility of desiring
the person you pity.
And the petal of the Easter lily–

That ghost of a tongue.
That tongue of a ghost.

What would I say if I spoke?
"Riddle" by Laura Kasischke (via riseofthecommonwoodpile)

Filed under laura kasischke

78 notes

Every Day You Play

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water,
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a bunch of flowers, every day, between my hands.

You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.

Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.

The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind.  The wind.
I alone can contend against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.

You are here.  Oh, you do not run away.
You will answer me to the last cry.
Curl round me as though you were frightened.
Even so, a strange shadow once ran through your eyes.

Now, now too, little one, you bring me honeysuckle,
and even your breasts smell of it.
While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies
I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.

How you must have suffered getting accustomed to me,
my savage, solitary soul, my name that sends them all running.
So many times we have seen the morning star burn, kissing our eyes,
and over our heads the grey light unwinds in turning fans.

My words rained over you, stroking you.
A long time I have loved the sunned mother-of-pearl of your body.
Until I even believe that you own the universe.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

—Pablo Neruda

Filed under pablo neruda

55 notes


THE last, late guest 
To the gate we followed; 
Goodbye — and the rest 
The night-wind swallowed. 

House, garden, street, 
Lay tenfold gloomy, 
Where accents sweet 
Had made music to me. 

It was but a feast 
With the dark coming on; 
She was but a guest —
And now, she is gone. 

-Henrik Ibsen

Filed under submission henrik ibsen

874 notes

Dulzura - Sandra Cisneros


Make love to me in Spanish.
Not with that other tongue.
I want you juntito a mi,
tender like the language
crooned to babies.
I want to be that
lullabied, mi bien
, that loved.

I want you inside
the mouth of my heart,
inside the harp of my wrists,
the sweet meat of the mango,
in the gold that dangles
from my ears and neck.

Say my name. Say it.
The way it’s supposed to be said.
I want to know that I knew you
even before I knew you.

(Source: izotecipotx, via luxxury-fruit)

4 notes

Hi! I hope you don’t mind me posting about this, but this might be something that your followers would be interested in… 

We’ve made a diary - a literary diary for 2014. In it, it includes over 30 poems from our magazine and it might be something that your followers might be interested in buying. 

It’s got poems from poets such as Christopher Reid and Helen Dunmore in it as well, including plenty more!

It also has some really funny adverts from our old magazines (including something called a toilet mask…)

If you’d like to find out more about it, you can here: http://bit.ly/15g7eDY



Filed under submission

74 notes

Sunken Gold

In dim green depths rot ingot-laden ships;
And gold doubloons, that from the drowned hand fell,
Lie nestled in the ocean-flower’s bell
With love’s old gifts, once kissed by long-drowned lips;
And round some wrought gold cup the sea-grass whips,
And hides lost pearls, near pearls still in their shell,
Where sea-weed forests fill each ocean dell
And seek dim sunlight with their restless tips.
So lie the wasted gifts, the long-lost hopes
Beneath the now hushed surface of myself,
In lonelier depths than where the diver gropes;
They lie deep, deep; but I at times behold
In doubtful glimpses, on some reefy shelf
The gleam of irrecoverable gold.

Eugene Lee Hamilton

170 notes

Night on the Island

All night I have slept with you
next to the sea, on the island.
Wild and sweet you were between pleasure and sleep,
between fire and water.

Perhaps very late
our dreams joined
at the top or at the bottom,
up above like branches moved by a common wind,
down below like red roots that touch.

Perhaps your dream
drifted from mine
and through the dark sea
was seeking me
as before, 
when you did not yet exist,
when without sighting you
I sailed by your side,
and your eyes sought
what now-
bread, wine, love, and anger-
I heap upon you
because you are the cup
that was waiting for the gifts of my life.

I have slept with you
all night long while
the dark earth spins
with the living and the dead,
and on waking suddenly
in the midst of the shadow
my arm encircled your waist.
Neither night nor sleep
could separate us.

I have slept with you
and on waking, your mouth,
come from your dream,
gave me the taste of earth,
of sea water, of seaweed,
of the depths of your life,
and I received your kiss
moistened by the dawn
as if it came to me
from the sea that surrounds us.

-Pablo Neruda

Filed under submission

5 notes


Hey poetry fans! Suzanne here. You may not know me - I pop in and out of the backstage area here at FYPoetry, monitoring the blog along with our other poet Tumblrites. I’m coming out of the curtain for a second to address a few messages we’ve gotten here at HQ.

Word is - we do not accept personal submissions. FYPoetry was begun and remains a blog to spread previously-published work. If you’ve just read an amazing poet in your workshop and you want us to showcase that work, by all means, please send it over. But if you just got your own poem workshopped and you want the internet to see, we ain’t your guys. It’s not that we don’t think you’re all amazing little sapling poets out there. We just want to keep FYPoetry to its original premise, ya dig?

Keep reading!

Filed under fuckyeahpoetry fypoetry poetry poem publishedwork

68 notes


Am I not alone, as I thought I was, as I thought
The day was, the hour I walked into, morning
When I felt night fly from my chest where prospect had
Slackened, and close itself off, understanding, as I thought I did,
That the ground would resist my legs and not let them
Break nor let them be released into air as my heart, in its
Muscle, might be released from the body that surrounds it, 
Like someone who, placing a hand on a shoulder's 
Blade, felt a life move inside an hour and a day 
Break from the day the hour meant something more than weakness, 
More than fear, and flew forward into the depths of 
Prospect, your arms, where you'd been, before me, waiting
For me, the way the body has always been waiting for the heart to sense 
It is housed, it is needed, it will not be harmed.

Joanna Klink

Filed under submission

107 notes

"The End of Summer" by Edgar Oliver


The end of the summer is here again.
I feel the same melancholy I have felt
since I first knew summers ended –
the melancholy of the crickets’ valiant singing
in the early coming dusk,
the melancholy of the boy who soon must return to school –
the melancholy of the summer’s end.
I wish that I could be again
eleven years old in the backyard
watching the night come early
and feeling the change in the leaves
the crickets can’t sing away.
I wish I had to go back to school –
so I could be eleven years old again and dread it.

Why must I like the crickets grow old?
Why must I like the summer end?

(Source: amerikanske)