tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68516711364749250532024-03-14T07:47:22.876+00:00Bird BonesA Collection of Poems.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05606315098207323269noreply@blogger.comBlogger8125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851671136474925053.post-22525552224568651162012-08-24T21:25:00.001+01:002012-08-24T21:25:04.126+01:00A Small Thing<div class="poem-title" id="poem" style="clear: left; color: #6c6c6c; float: left; font-family: FreeSetDemiBold; font-size: 30px; line-height: 35px; margin-bottom: 25px; padding-right: 180px;">
A Small Thing</div>
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'A hurt so small,'
Say you,
'A thread of grey
On blue,
So slight a thing
Less than a wild rose sting
Nothing at all.'
And yet,
When thrushes call,
Or winds awake
And sigh – and sink –
And fall –
Into the evening’s grey
I think –
And think
This small heartbreak
Will wear my life away.</pre>
<pre style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: FreeSetBook; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.8em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: FreeSetDemiBold; line-height: 20px; white-space: normal;">Marion Angus</span></pre>
<pre style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: FreeSetBook; font-size: 15px; line-height: 1.8em; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 1em;">From the <a href="http://www.scottishpoetrylibrary.org.uk/poetry/poems/small-thing">Scottish Poetry Library</a>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05606315098207323269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851671136474925053.post-40974203816794006212012-02-01T16:00:00.001+00:002012-02-01T16:00:02.702+00:00Mary Oliver<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05606315098207323269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851671136474925053.post-57369929871788731072011-09-25T17:56:00.001+01:002011-09-25T17:58:21.061+01:00Sylvia Plath<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05606315098207323269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851671136474925053.post-47568825960116962262011-09-07T16:28:00.001+01:002011-09-07T16:28:26.058+01:00Tyler Knott Gregson“I will be the home
you have waited your whole life
to light from inside.”
Daily Haiku on Love
<a href="http://tylerknott.com/">http://tylerknott.com/</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05606315098207323269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851671136474925053.post-18000174447275938612011-06-26T21:37:00.003+01:002011-06-26T21:43:55.255+01:00Dallas Clayton<a href="http://store.veryawesomeworld.com/v/vspfiles/photos/BAG-CANDLE-2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 700px;" src="http://store.veryawesomeworld.com/v/vspfiles/photos/BAG-CANDLE-2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://store.veryawesomeworld.com/category_s/45.htm">Poetry bags</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05606315098207323269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851671136474925053.post-4923441042382831192011-06-26T21:36:00.001+01:002011-06-26T21:36:57.267+01:00“When we hold each other, in the darkness, it doesn’t make the darkness go away. The bad things are still out there. The nightmares still walking. When we hold each other we feel not safe, but better. “It’s all right” we whisper, “I’m here, I love you.” and we lie: “I’ll never leave you.” For just a moment or two the darkness doesn’t seem so bad.”<br />— Neil GaimanAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05606315098207323269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851671136474925053.post-73361168809886538622011-06-19T22:49:00.000+01:002011-06-19T22:50:15.616+01:00The Human Experience-Tyler Knott Gregson<br /><br />How unique<br />to this human<br />experience<br />that we all<br />just wish<br />to be<br />the most important<br />thing<br />on earth<br />to someone<br />else.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05606315098207323269noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6851671136474925053.post-48931685314228797712011-06-19T22:39:00.003+01:002011-06-19T22:43:24.354+01:00Spatchcock-David Harsent<br /><br />As I entered, she had her pinking shears to the backbone,<br />having dropped the gizzard into the kitchen bin,<br />and barely looked over her shoulder to see who it was<br /><br />when I gave the door a little back-heel<br />then ferreted round in the fridge for an ice-cold Coors<br />before slipping up from behind to cop a feel.<br /><br />Another hot day in September, and that the cause<br />of her half-baked look, brought on<br />by lying bare-assed in the garden all afternoon,<br /><br />a flush coming off her, the veins so close to the skin<br />I could trace the flow like sap, could tongue-up the ooze<br />of sweat at the nape of her neck: and this the real<br /><br />taste of her, like nothing before, like nothing I ever knew.<br />You have to go hard at it, either side of the spine,<br />all the time bearing down against the sinew,<br /><br />then lift the long bone entire and get both hands<br />into the cut, knuckle to knuckle, and draw<br />the carcass apart, and press, till you hear the breastbone crack.<br /><br />Looked at like that it’s roadkill, flat on its back,<br />sprung ribcage, legs akimbo, red side up, and sends<br />a message (you might guess) about life lived in the raw.<br /><br />So then it’s a matter of taste: herb-butter under the slack<br />of the breast, perhaps, or a tart marinade,<br />to flatter and blend, spread thinly and rubbed well in.<br /><br />She favoured the latter—that and a saltire of thin<br />skewers driven aslant from thigh to neck,<br />which might, indeed, have said something about her mood.<br /><br /><br />That done, she stripped off, gathering the oils and the balm<br />she’d need for however long the thing would take,<br />and went back to her place in the sun. It did no harm,<br /><br />I suppose, to watch from an upstairs window: a hawk’s-<br />eye-view as she lay there timing the turn<br />(face-up till you tingle, then flip) to brown but not to burn.<br /><br />The marks of the griddle, the saltire, the subtle flux…<br />We ate it with lima beans and picked the bones,<br />after which we took to bed a bottle of bright Sancerre<br /><br />and I held her down as I’d held her down before,<br />working her hot-spots with a certain caution and care<br />as she told me not here…or here…but there…and there.<br /><br />I left her flat on her back—flat out and shedding a glow,<br />or so I like to think, as I slipped downstairs<br />and lifted, from a peg-board beside the hob,<br /><br />her mother’s (or grandmother’s) longhand note on how<br />to spatchcock a chicken, or guinea, or quail, or squab,<br />or sparrow, even, with emphasis on that ‘crack’;<br /><br />and lifted, as well, before I lifted the latch,<br />myrtle, borage, dill, marjoram, tarragon, sumac,<br />all named and tagged, in a customized cardboard box.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05606315098207323269noreply@blogger.com0