Fuck Yeah, Poetry!: Archive

Fuck Yeah, Poetry!

January 2012

9 posts

aprettywar: Traveler Your first time out of the country of your own skin, I didn’t bring a map. You always hated that I’d been lucky enough to pick my way through streets I couldn’t pronounce to find cathedrals, graveyards. If you were a city, you said, I’d only like to know your suburbs. If you were a city, I said, I’d like to know your poor neighborhoods, your inner parts. Read your...

Sunflower Sutra

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and sat down under the huge shade of a Southern Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the box house hills and cry. Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed, sur- rounded by...

"Poet Talking to Himself in the Mirror" by Gregory...

kaleidoscope-view: Hi, I’m me— It has become glaringly absurd this hunt for me believing that when I was hunted down I’d find not only me but a whole herd past me’s, future me’s the whole cart load and all the years and where have I gotten to in this point of time this isn’t the same mirror I gazed into years ago It’s the mirror that changes not poor Gregory Hey, in...

Excerpt from "[I pinch myself hard on the inner...

At the deadlock, Athena turned up, Athena! her garment having been kissed by many men or what, we don’t know, and she in her deciding vote acquitted him. For us to lose, in effect, a case of matricide meant the balance of power was shifting. I pour another vodka. What I didn’t say to Jade was, it meant we’d be lying low for some time, centuries perhaps. I remember the fires of earlier camps. In...

Godzilla in Mexico

Listen carefully, my son: bombs were falling over Mexico City but no one even noticed. The air carried poison through the streets and open windows. You’d just finished eating and were watching cartoons on TV. I was reading in the bedroom next door when I realized we were going to die. Despite the dizziness and nausea I dragged myself to the kitchen and found you on the floor. We...

This Lunar Beauty

This lunar beauty Has no history Is complete and early, If beauty later Bear any feature It had a lover And is another. This like a dream Keeps other time And daytime is The loss of this, For time is inches And the heart’s changes Where ghost has haunted Lost and wanted. But this was never A ghost’s endeavor Nor finished this, Was ghost at ease, And till it pass Love shall not near The...

prose-before-hoes asked: i have a question. why do you only publish by established poets. not a complaint but a question.

The Darker Sooner

Then came the darker sooner, came the later lower. We were no longer a sweeter-here happily-ever-after. We were after ever. We were farther and further. More was the word we used for harder. Lost was our standard-bearer. Our gods were fallen faster, and fallen larger. The day was duller, duller was disaster. Our charge was error. Instead of leader we had louder, instead of lover, never. And over...

I dream awake (from Ismaelillo)

Day and night I always dream with open eyes And on top of the foaming waves Of the wide turbulent sea, And on the rolling Desert sands, And merrily riding on the gentle neck Of a mighty lion, Monarch of my heart, I always see a floating child Who is calling me! - Jose Marti

December 2011

10 posts

the rabbit in your hat bites before it licks behind your mask of illusions beyond your writhing bag of tricks you smell like your victims all cold underneath with your scarf knit of pride and your necklace strung with teeth —Tina M. Oellerich

blessed are the bonds

the Machine on that peak we have caged god in the glory of our gears and a song rings out for the death at hand for gods do not progress and a machine can not rejoice that which can not die can not progress —Pax Cecilia

The Human Abstract

Pity would be no more, If we did not make somebody Poor; And Mercy no more could be, If all were as happy as we; And mutual fear brings peace, Till the selfish loves increase; Then Cruelty knits a snare, And spreads his baits with care. He sits down with holy fears, And waters the ground with tears; Then Humility takes its root Underneath his foot. Soon spreads the dismal shade Of...

Saying Your Names

Chemical names, bird names, names of fire and flight and snow, baby names, paint names, delicate names like bones in the body, Rumplestiltskin names that are always changing, names that no one’s ever able to figure out. Names of spells and names of hexes, names cursed quietly under the breath, or called out loudly to fill the yard, calling you inside again, calling you home. Nicknames and...

I Find No Peace

I find no peace, and all my war is done. I fear and hope. I burn and freeze like ice. I fly above the wind, yet can I not arise; And nought I have, and all the world I season. That loseth nor locketh holdeth me in prison And holdeth me not—yet can I scape no wise— Nor letteth me live nor die at my device, And yet of death it giveth me occasion. Without eyen I see, and without...

Twelve Epistles from Letter's To Wendy's by Joe...

fuckyeahpoetry: Read More

Stray birds of summer come to my window to sing and fly away. And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh. O troupe of little vagrants of the world, leave your footprints in my words The world puts off its mask of vastness to its lover. It becomes small as one song, as one kiss of the eternal. It is the tears of the earth that keep her smiles in bloom. The...

3,000 Followers and Our 2 Year Anniversary.

We recently hit both milestones and we’d like to thank all of you who follow us, submit and reblog all the poems that get posted on here. Without you this humble little tumblr would probably never gotten this big and been able to reach all those people. We all apologize for the bit of the slow going around here lately but hopefully soon we will be picking up the amount of posts again and as...

Many a flower have I seen blossom, Many a bird for me will sing. Never heard I so sweet a singer, Never saw I so fair a thing. She is a bird, a bird that blossoms, She is a flower, a flower that sings; And I a flower when I behold her, And when I hear her, I have wings. — Mary Elizabeth Coleridge

I Am Not Yours.

I am not yours, not lost in you, Not lost, although I long to be Lost as a candle lit at noon, Lost as a snowflake in the sea. You love me, and I find you still A spirit beautiful and bright, Yet I am I, who long to be Lost as a light is lost in light. Oh plunge me deep in love - put out My senses, leave me deaf and blind, Swept by the tempest of your love, A taper in the rushing wind. —...

November 2011

17 posts

How to watch your brother die

When the call comes, be calm. Say to your wife, “My brother is dying. I have to fly to California.” try not to be shocked that he already looks like a cadaver. Say to the young man sitting by your brother’s side, “I’m his brother.” Try not to be shocked when the young man says, “I’m his lover. Thanks for coming.” Listen to the doctor...

The Moon And The Yew Tree

This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue. The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place. Separated from my house by a row of headstones. I simply cannot see where there is to get to. The moon is no door. It is a face in its...

The silence emitting from the hand that isn't...

When they carted me in here I was in shock. The morphine doesn’t kill the pain, it just numbs my body. Most of my blood had fallen out of me, hopefully extracting the demons as it poured like thick wine from my veins. My body sobers up as your soft hand finds my cold, carefully packaged hand. I can almost feel the gentle friction of our fingerprints like an old bow against new strings. ...

Dreams in the Dusk

Dreams in the dusk, Only dreams closing the day And with the day’s close going back To the gray things, the dark things, The far, deep things of dreamland. Dreams, only dreams in the dusk, Only the old remembered pictures Of lost days when the day’s loss Wrote in tears the heart’s loss. Tears and loss and broken dreams May find your heart at dusk. —Carl Sandburg

The Witch of Coos (excerpt)

I staid the night for shelter at a farm Behind the mountains, with a mother and son, Two old-believers. They did all the talking. MOTHER: Folks think a witch who has familiar spirits She could call up to pass a winter evening, But won’t, should be burned at the stake or something. Summoning spirits isn’t ‘Button, button, Who’s got the button,’ I would have them...

Launcelot in Hell

That noon we banged like tubs in a blast from Hell’s mouth. Axes donged on casques, and the dead steamed through their armor, their wounds frying. Horses screamed like cats, and men ran through their own dust like darks howling. My country went up in flames to the last rick and roof, and the smoke was my own breath in me scorching the world bare. We fought. May the clerk eat his own hand in...

dizzypurr: “Sunshine shining shine shine all in my bones.” i beg to show you my teeth, each cavity, this sweet and that sweet. birthdays, halloweens, wedding tin can candy holder. dove feathers, grains of rice. i smile big, swallow whole. sink my teeth into a four am moon, suck up it’s juices and spirits. zero bones at midnight, i may be ugly but i shine— my spine is a string of lights. ...

To Think of Time

Not a day passes, not a minute or second without an accouchement, Not a day passes, not a minute or second without a corpse. The dull nights go over and the dull days also, The soreness of lying so much in bed goes over, The physician after long putting off gives the silent and terrible look for an answer, The children come hurried and weeping, and the brothers and sisters are sent for, ...

The Old Man Who Watches Me Sleep

The old man who watches me sleep has wings growing from his chest. This is a mistake. This is why he’s so hunched over. Sometimes, his crying wakes me and I open my eyes a little to find him trying to push those wings through to the other side. If you have a soul it may have been put in there backward. —Zachary Schomburg

likeitalics asked: A friend and I have a poetry tumblr--the username is words-in-lines. We post published poetry and other poetry-related things, mostly daily.

thesetelevisionblues asked: I couldn't reply to it but I run a poetry blog called 'poetryandimages' ^_^

ekatherine asked: Could you recommend a few good poetry blogs?

You are in a very high tree. If you jump you will live a full life while falling You will get married to a hummingbird and raise beautiful part- hummingbirds. — Zachary Schomburg

aprettywar: There’s Something Different Suzanne Highland In the way your knees are folded when you sit, face like a Civil War silhouette, wordlessly crossing yourself. Our grandmother clock chimes so frequently we forget to hear it; it’s a replica from Savannah anyway, because my own grandmother only left me a postcard with Coca-Cola stains and a dictionary, and once she told a cousin that...

16-bit Intel 8088 chip

with an Apple Macintosh you can’t run Radio Shack programs in its disc drive. nor can a Commodore 64 drive read a file you have created on an IBM Personal Computer. both Kaypro and Osborne computers use the CP/M operating system but can’t read each other’s handwriting for they format (write on) discs in different ways. the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but can’t use most...

I Found a Beating Heart Half-Buried in the Woods

I found a beating heart half-buried in the woods. It was beating beneath some dead leaves. When I picked it up, it was warm and heavy in my cold hands. I worried I was going to drop it. Later, I found a woman half-buried not far from where I found the beating heart. Is this your beating heart? I asked. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have a larynx. She didn’t even have a thorax. She didn’t...

I know a dead wolf

I know a dead wolf we can climb inside and beat like little hearts. It would maybe come back to life, the wolf. —Zachary Schomburg

October 2011

16 posts

A week after my father died, suddenly I understood his fondness for me was safe—nothing could touch it. In that last year, his face sometimes brightened when I entered the room, and his wife said that once when he was half asleep he smiled when she said my name. He respected my spunk—when they had tied me to the chair, that time, they were tying up someone he respected, and...

Overhead my spirit flies

Overhead my spirit flies Upon the ground and crimson skies Whispering winds in moonlit woods A totem oak once golden stood. How I wish that you were here Before all flowers disappeared. We would lay together in the sun Before the night rain had begun. Now stones are falling from my hands Shaking all my beloved land. A watery glimpse back on my past And only in my tears it lasts. —Charles Bukowski

The Last - Riley Richards

goldenhorses: Color is critical. It fades in and out. Arms lose their strength. Bodies lose body. I crack my teeth on stones and draw blood. I hear voices burn. The city hunts us. We fight it with noise. My nerves howl and rattle their bars. Bravery screams, “Where did the world go when our fathers lost their youth? I will not give it up. Not until my hands rot from wanting.” *** Riley is a...

whitemystere: I have emotions that are like newspapers that read themselves. I go for days at a time trapped in the want ads. I feel as if I am an ad for the sale of a haunted house: 18 rooms $37,000 I’m yours ghosts and all. Tokyo June 2, 1976 Richard Brautigan

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o’er her face; Where thoughts...

Sonnet of Sweet Complaint

Never let me lose the marvel of your statue-like eyes, or the accent the solitary rose of your breath places on my cheek at night. I am afraid of being, on this shore, a branchless trunk, and what I most regret is having no flower, pulp, or clay for the worm of my despair. If you are my hidden treasure, if you are my cross, my dampened pain, if I am a dog, and you alone my master, never...

Scheherazade, by Richard Siken

lathyrism: Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake and dress them in warm clothes again. How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running until they forgot they are horses. It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere, it’s more like a song on a...

Four In The Morning

The hour from night to day. The hour from side to side. The hour for those past thirty. The hour swept clean to the crowing of cocks. The hour when earth betrays us. The hour when wind blows from extinguished stars. The hour of and-what-if-nothing-remains-after-us. The hollow hour. Blank, empty. The very pit of all other hours. No one feels good at four in the morning. If ants feel good at four...

Golden Horses is an online literary journal, with a focus in modern poetry. We wish to curate a collection of poetry by young and otherwise unknown or barely known writers, who deserve to have their voice heard. Unlike other tumblr’s of this nature, there is a strict eye on craft. Not all writers will be published but we hope that you try. We hope to highlight really talented poets. While...

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie, In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to...

The Red King's Blossom-Tide

The Red King’s orchard-close is blossoming, And fragrance reaches as far as ships at sea And regions of the far barbarians. The King alone may walk inside the close And look at the spring sky through flower-froth Or stand in petal rain until the pink And white obscures and crowns him with its snow. Some gossips claim a woman made of blooms Walks under petal-clouds with the Red King, ...

Going to a party where I knew you’d be, dudes bobbing for boyfriends, eyes shining like candy apples. I want to be a lamppost, or the history of plumbing. I am tired of being mysterious. You are drinking rum next to the laughing skullheads and I am unhappy because I am dead and I miss you. Once a year, day of the dead, you think you’d think of me more often. These people shoulda...

wishes for sons

i wish them cramps. i wish them a strange town and the last tampon. i wish them no 7-11. i wish them one week early and wearing a white skirt. i wish them one week late. later i wish them hot flashes and clots like you wouldn’t believe. let the flashes come when they meet someone special. let the clots come when they want to. let them think they have accepted arrogance in the universe,...